


Foregone

by Prix



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant in a World State Near You, Complete, Dark Ritual (Dragon Age), Dragon Age Inquisition Era (Untagged), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, Missing Scenes in Your Missing Scenes, Misunderstandings, Other: See Story Notes, Post-Break Up Friendship, Sensory Deprivation, Shut Up Kiss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26231305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/pseuds/Prix
Summary: Morrigan's mother has always had plans for her. One of them involves a man for whom no plans were made until he survives an attempt to destroy him and all others like him.Alistair has never wanted his blood to define him, but a trail of it always seems to leave him standing on his own.Through days and years, together and alone, Morrigan and Alistair's paths cross and diverge, but perhaps the suffering they have endured and inflicted will have been worth it, when they find what is waiting at the end.
Relationships: (temporary/past) Alistair/Female Tabris, Alistair & Female Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair & Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair & Kieran (Dragon Age), Alistair/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Flemeth & Morrigan (Dragon Age), Kieran & Morrigan (Dragon Age), Morrigan & Wynne, Morrigan & Zevran Arainai, Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris
Comments: 110
Kudos: 44
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	1. A Flightless Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vegetablearian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetablearian/gifts).



> Dear Recipient (and Other Readers), 
> 
> This fic sort of got out of control in the length department. I apologize if this is any inconvenience. However you choose to leave feedback, please take all the time you need! I really hope you enjoy it. I had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> My exchange recipient suggested the use of their Female Tabris Warden should any background Warden be used. Rina Tabris isdescribed as " _a likeable but short tempered rogue, friends with the whole party, Alistair's lover until his father was revealed, and possibly Zevran's wife/fiancee_." I have tried my best to stay true to this suggested aspect of the request, and I beg pardon if taking this risk has resulted in any missteps with her characterization in the eyes of her creator. Physically speaking, she is described as looking similar to a freckled, female Soris. 
> 
> In the end notes of the first chapter, I will include a list of a few other content warnings and notes which may spoil the progression of the story. You may jump down to them if you wish by using AO3's provided link. If you wish to read the story both unspoiled and unwarned of these things, **do not read the ending notes for this chapter**. 
> 
> Even if you do not wish to read the brief list of notes and warnings, I _will_ indicate in a similar fashion which chapter earns this story it explicit rating. 
> 
> There are a few scenes which draw dialogue directly from canon, while others make allusions to canon dialogue or take liberties with it. I have tried not to over-rely on canon dialogue to avoid rehashing things we have all heard before, but there were some scenes in which I felt the need to incorporate specific dialogue's relevance to my interpretation of Alistair and Morrigan's developing relationship. In cases where liberties have been taken, please assume that this overrides any redundancy. 
> 
> This story is canon compliant in the sense that it is within the realm of possibility, and my assertions that it is canon compliant are loose and subject to being obviously contradicted.
> 
> Once again, I very much hope you enjoy this story, and I welcome comments from anyone. 
> 
> Sincerely, 
> 
> Your Black Emporium Author (2020)

Morrigan sees the four Grey Wardens back to the gate of Ostagar that protects the ruin from the open Wilds which all the men behind it fear. She does not walk all the way up the hill, bidding them a curt goodbye where the path becomes clearer and more trodden. 

“Surely you will not lose your way from here,” she remarks. 

The youngest man looks back over his shoulder at her, eyes narrowed for show. 

Morrigan folds one arm across herself beneath her breasts. The other she lifts and waves, smiling with amusement as much as mockery. At least he has the good sense to be afraid, and like any intelligent creature, he is not content to retreat unawares. 

His eyes remind her of a bear cub’s. There could be some danger in them, but it is fledgling, timid. 

“See that she doesn’t follow us,” he says, leaning down slightly to accommodate the hearing of their female companion, though Morrigan hardly knows why. It does not seem as if he were particularly interested in discretion. Bluster, then. 

The gate has closed with the four travelers inside when Morrigan looks down at her arms, both barred across her chest. Much of her skin is bare and cold, but she breathes in deeply, and her body warms itself from within. She turns her back on Ostagar and begins to retreat back home. 

Once, when the walls are much smaller behind her, she looks back, too. 

  


* * *

  


There is no sound but the trees when Morrigan drops her arms to her sides and lets them hang free. She stretches a little, her wrists rotating against tension. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices movement. Her gaze follows it, and she notices that it is a small creature with white fur, scurrying for shelter in the husk of a dead tree. 

She has no desire to chase after it. Not with much easier and more appetizing food back at home. However, the reminder that she is not alone and that there are eyes other than those of persons who could watch her prompts her to deviate her path slightly into the shade of the trees, living and dead. 

Her hand comes to rest against sickly bark, clinging to life but rough and gnarled from a difficult existence. She takes a deep breath and looks up toward the skeletal fingers of the trees, reaching for the sky. Then she closes her eyes, and she is as a wolf, her skin and hair and eyes changed, her ragged clothing somewhere beyond her body but easy to retrieve. 

Her paws feel at home against the cool, packed soil beneath her feet. There are shed tree needles, too. Her body weight springs back a little, and she runs out of her shelter, her metamorphosis unseen by any who could tell the tale. 

She launches herself forward and bounds off homeward, her changed form ensuring that all creatures view her more as predator than prey. 

  


* * *

  


Morrigan approaches the hut around the back, circling and sniffing with her enhanced senses for any unusual threat. Satisfied that her surroundings have returned to something familiar, she huffs out an audible breath. Then her wolf form shifts and grows, encased in light. 

She is human again, steadying herself, dusting off her knees, and straightening her skirt. 

“Mother?” she calls as she comes around toward the door. 

“Ah, you have returned so soon,” Flemeth replies. She sounds amused. Morrigan doesn’t like it. 

She leans against the door frame, letting some fresh air in as she watches her mother tend a pot over the fire. Whether it is something to eat or something fit to kill a hundred men remains yet to be seen. 

“What of it?” she asks. 

“I thought you might wish to accompany them into their camp. Perhaps you would have liked to make some friends of doomed men,” she says with a loud stir of the pot, scraping along its edges. 

“Do you intend to be the end of them?” Morrigan presses. She does not know why or if she cares at all. Perhaps it is only that it would be a waste of their hospitality if that were to be the case. 

“I do not need to intend such a thing. Two of them will perish and two of them may survive,” Flemeth says. 

Morrigan hates it when her mother speaks of such things with such unearned confidence. Perhaps she has earned it in some time long gone, but Morrigan cannot imagine that her mother has ever been anything but a mad old woman who preys upon the foolish. Knowing something and believing it are two different things, as Flemeth has so often taught her. 

“Well, never mind,” Morrigan says, going to perch at the end of the bed in which she usually sleeps. Flemeth rarely reclines, spending all night outdoors. It is yet another curious thing Morrigan has never completely understood, and each time she has tried to investigate it, she has only found her mother cross and pacing outside. “If their fates are out of our hands now, I need not dwell on doomed fools.” 

“Who has said they are all fools?” 

“Why I, Mother,” Morrigan says, gripping the edge of the quilt upon the bed. Her fingertip brushes along a spot where the threads are bare. 

“And what makes you so certain?” 

“Experience,” Morrigan says, though she knows she has so little compared to any one of the people she had seen, the humans or the elf. 

“I offered to allow you more experience with them, should you have chosen to pursue it,” Flemeth says. Morrigan hears the sour note of implication in Flemeth’s tone, and she does not care of it at all. 

“I told you I had tired of learning their ways,” Morrigan replies, straightening her posture in a way that made her feel more sturdy. She does not like the strange premonition she felt. She knows when Flemeth is inclined to suggest some game or other to play with those from outside their world. “… Besides, I thought you were inclined to let them leave with their treaties.” 

“So I am,” Flemeth says. There is a long pause during which Morrigan notes that Flemeth does seem to be making a meal rather than a potion. “Two of them will have the chance to survive and etch an indelible mark in this world,” she adds after a long moment. She stirs the pot and hums to herself, thoughtfully, “but one of them may only survive if you, too, make such a mark as will outlive either of them.” 

“I tire of your speaking in riddles, Mother,” Morrigan says wearily. She sighs and looks away, toward the door, imagining bounding off again with no particular direction or purpose. 

“Ah, but riddles are so much more interesting than ordinary speech. They are one caste below poetry.” 

“I would much rather the meat of whatever wicked plan you intend to hatch,” Morrigan says, feeling bored above all else, even with the Blight’s threat growing by the hour if the assembling armies north of the Wilds are anything to go by. 

“Two Grey Wardens will survive the coming battle. I know they will survive, for I intend to be the one to save them,” Flemeth says. She places a lid on the pot, and a pleasant-smelling aroma begins to fill the hut as steam escapes through the seal. Flemeth dawdles through the living space and disappears behind a wall. Morrigan listens as she rummages for a moment and closes it again. 

“You, saving people?” Morrigan scoffs. 

Flemeth comes back around the corner and comes to sit at the foot of the bed beside her daughter. Morrigan tightens her arms to her sides, subtly avoiding contact. Either way, it is impossible not to feel her mother’s presence. 

“After the battle is lost, you will go with them,” Flemeth announces. 

“I will not go anywhere,” Morrigan replies, just as haughty and confident as Flemeth. 

“Ah, but it is necessary. It is an act of mercy as much as one of treachery. Whichever way you choose to view it is not up to me,” Flemeth says. 

There is an icy sensation that blows across Morrigan’s skin with no wind at all. She has never had any trouble with convenient deception. It has been necessary for her survival. And yet, she feels as though she is being woven into a fabric which she had never even been curious to become part of. 

“What do you know of dragons, dear girl?” Flemeth asks. 

“The darkspawn seek them and follow their voices,” Morrigan replies, sighing as a schoolchild reciting her lessons. 

“Yes, but what of their nature? Are they simply great, ancient beasts? Are they gods? Are they something between?” 

“I believe in no gods lording over me,” Morrigan replies. 

“Then are you not a goddess?” Flemeth asks. 

Morrigan glares at her. 

Flemeth meets her gaze, and Morrigan hates the knowledge that their eyes are quite the same. 

“The dragons of old are not mere beasts. They were once worshiped as gods. Some say they were cast down by the mighty Maker while others believe that they tired of this world and went to sleep. It does not matter what you believe, only what you know.” 

“What difference could it make to me? I am no Grey Warden nor any soldier of any kind.” 

“You may not be a soldier, but you are quite the fighter,” Flemeth says. 

Morrigan feels the fine hairs along her arms stand on end once again. She hates knowing that her mother has plans for her life which she will never truly understand. She wonders if she will ever find a way out from under that ancient, cold yellow gaze. 

“The dragon contains an ancient soul, that of an old god,” Flemeth explains. 

Morrigan opens her mouth to argue the absurdity of such a claim, but Flemeth holds up her hand to silence her. 

“Argue philosophy all you like, my dear, but the fact that it is ancient and powerful does not change, no matter how you define a ‘god.’” 

Morrigan frowns at being quieted like a child, but her brow etches even more deeply as she thinks Flemeth may have a point. 

“What does the quality of its soul matter if it is to kill us all should it be free?” 

“We do not know if the dragon’s intent is to kill. We do not know whether it was intent upon its slumber or not, either. What we do know is why the Grey Wardens have come back time and time again to stop the Blight. The races and nations of the world all war with one another, regimes rise and fall, and yet the Grey Wardens always return, no matter the sorry lot of their lives. Do you know why that is?” 

“I would imagine it is the same hold Andraste and stones hold over humans and dwarves,” Morrigan replies. 

“It is because a Grey Warden is the only soul which can snuff out an old god forever. The darkspawn lack souls to call their own, but perhaps one could be cynical enough to suggest that obtaining the soul of a dragon is enough to constitute the darkspawns’ religion.” 

“Wonderful news that they allow their mindless existences to be so consumed with such folly, too.” 

“The dragon’s soul requires not a singular body but a host,” Flemeth says. The confidence with which she says it makes Morrigan stand to her feet and pace a little, uncomfortable. 

“Mother, please get to the point. I shall think you have lost your mind completely.” 

“The world needs the Grey Wardens in order to stop the Blight because the world needs rid of the corrupt, old soul of the High Dragon,” Flemeth says. “The dragon’s soul will flee the body when the body is dead, just as the soul of any creature will. Only, the dragon’s soul is more resilient than many creatures. It will seek out the best available host from among the hoards. Now, under normal circumstances, that would be the empty husk of a living darkspawn.” 

“Lovely,” Morrigan replies sarcastically. 

“Ah, but the Grey Wardens are human, elf, dwarf, or whatever other creature, tainted with darkspawn blood but yet alive. They are intelligent, pure, brave, and strong. They are so much better than the cobbled together disease that the darkspawn are to this world. And so the dragon’s soul will fly to the tainted soul rather than the tainted husk, but the soul of the Grey Warden shines too bright and will not be consumed. Thus, the Grey Warden and the dragon are both destroyed.” 

Morrigan is silent for a moment. She has curiosities, questions, but there is also the weight of what Flemeth has told her. She does not know what, if anything, comes after death, but the notion of the ultimate end of one’s existence being to be consumed by a dragon’s soul is a heavy weight to carry. 

“And few of them know the truth,” Flemeth adds, and Morrigan bristles at the thought that even the pause is strategic. 

Morrigan stops her pacing and stares at her mother as though it had been her decision to keep such a thing from them. 

“They do not know the truth?” 

“How else could they be expected to behave as good little soldiers?” 

Morrigan scoffs and reaches up to scratch at her hairline, fidgeting. 

“And why are you telling me all of this?” she demands. “You said two of them may have the chance to survive?” she adds, to show that she has been listening, however begrudgingly. 

“There are some things in this world worth preserving, dear girl,” Flemeth replies. She moves to rummage in the folds of her loose, worn clothing. From them, she pulls out a candle with an untouched wick. 

And it is in this way that Morrigan learns of her mother’s plans for her to conceive the old god’s soul, untouched by the taint of corruption, consumed by and conformed to the soul of a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for the Full Story:**
> 
> \- This story contains canon-typical references to sex work. These references are not meant to reflect any kind of opinion or judgement on real-life sex work or to show disrespect to anyone. 
> 
> \- This story contains a sex scene. As per my recipient's request, it is not very kinky. It does, however, contain "sensory deprivation," in the most vanilla way possible: sex in the dark. Actual, pitch dark. 
> 
> \- This story contains a brief scene concerning the process of giving birth. It is not very graphic, but take care if this makes you uncomfortable.


	2. The Wounded Bear

Morrigan does not question how her mother managed to bring both a fully-grown human and a fully-grown elf back to the hut with her frail frame. She tells herself she does not care at all. It does not concern her. 

What does concern her is finding a place to put both of them. She does not have the patience for the delicate sensibilities of what is supposed to be the civilized world, but she knows how much she eschews unexpected touch. And so, she cedes her bed to the elven woman with vibrant, fiery hair and creates a thin layer of padding on the floor to place the man. Her mother’s frailty seems to have returned from wherever she had misplaced it, for Morrigan finds herself in the position of helping lay him on the ground. 

They are both injured. 

Morrigan busies herself with boiling water and finding poultices for their wounds once they have been cleared and cleaned. 

“He is quite a handsome young man,” Flemeth remarks casually as she works on removing the armour from his chest as carefully as she can. 

Morrigan makes a dismissive, disgusted noise. What her mother implies, she does not wish for her mother to even consider. She does not deign to give her an answer. 

  


* * *

  


The man wakes first. He looks after his companion at first, but she is barely clothed beneath a blanket and that seems to give him pause when nothing else might. He has questions that neither Morrigan nor her mother should have answers for, and yet Flemeth does. 

He retreats outside, finding a place to sit and stare into the fog. 

Morrigan tries to focus her attentions on the other Grey Warden, but her mother sends her out with a skinful of water and a bowl of meager porridge. 

“Ah,” he says when she approaches him. He does not seem to have even his characteristic suspicion of her to defend himself. Instead he puts on a small, boyish smile and takes what is offered to him. He looks down at it. Morrigan hears him sniff. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Ah, so you are capable of subtlety,” Morrigan remarks, letting out a breath that approaches a chuckle. 

“Pardon me?” he replies, still sounding quite subdued and distant. She notices that he glances up at her from where he sits. 

Morrigan glances skyward. 

“You needn’t pretend my mother’s cooking is any particular favour,” she says. 

The man’s face goes a bit slack around his eyes, making him look less aged beyond his obviously few years. He seems to be weighing his responses slowly. His mouth works once before he tries to make a sound. He picks up the spoon and lets the thick mush drip back down into the bowl. At least it is still warm enough to emit steam, which makes it at least a bit more appetizing. 

“Well… _we_ cannot expect to be especially honoured guests,” he says. “And I won’t complain about something provided to keep body and soul together.” 

Morrigan notes his hesitation on ‘we.’ He is concerned, then, that his companion may not survive her wounds. She wishes she knew how one would be meant to respond to such a concern. She also feels herself withdraw a little, internally, like skin to a caustic remedy. She does not wish to encourage what her mother has suggested and foretold. Or has she ordered that it come to pass?

She takes a small step back, her boots scuffing against a twisted, feeble strand of vine that grows from one bleached, withered tree to another. It snaps, and she sighs as it catches his attention once more. 

“Are you so pleased with such an arrangement?” she asks, because she has lost her chance to slip away without losing face. She folds her arms across her body, shielding herself. 

He takes a few methodical bites – more swallows – of the porridge and a sip of water before he hangs his head and answers. 

“With being alive?” he asks. 

“That would be that to which I refer,” Morrigan replies, a bit flippant. She shrugs for effect. 

He snorts again. 

“What kind of question is that?” He takes a few more bites of porridge, making quick work of the beige sludge. 

“Perhaps it is more philosophical than practical, seeing as you are, in fact, alive.” 

“So you’re asking if I wish I were dead?” 

“Not for its own sake. Rather, I wonder because the rest of your ranks have fallen.” 

“You think I’m unaware?” he asks, bristling a bit for the first time, fixing her with a sharp glance. 

“I needn’t lend you an ear when I have already lent you a place to lay your head.” 

“How kind of you,” he argues, still not withdrawn back into his passive state of grief. 

Morrigan scoffs at him. She peers over at his working at his porridge. He goes back to the routine of drawing the spoon to his mouth and gulping it down. About every third swallow, he drinks water instead. She sighs and realizes that it will save her some effort and pleasantries if she simply waits for him to finish. 

The silence passes, and Morrigan does not take note of its quality. Sometimes a cold breeze sweeps across, and neither of them react to it. He is clad again in his armour. 

Eventually, his bowl is bare except for a coating which one would have to scrape off with the spoon to obtain, and one would wonder why one should bother. Morrigan stares at it as he drops the spoon against the bowl’s rim, finding the next step of this interaction a bit more perplexing than the previous. 

The man clears his throat and gulps down a little more water. He exhales heavily as if the water had been quite strong. 

“I’ve had worse,” he remarks without looking at Morrigan nor moving to return the bowl to her. He seals the water skin and instead holds the bowl in both hands as if it were some precious thing he feared to break. 

Morrigan presses her lips closer together, resisting the feeling that they might turn upward at the comment. 

He sighs again. 

“Morrigan, was it?” he asks. 

It strikes her as strange enough that her eyes are a bit wide when he turns to look up at her. 

She nods, silently. 

“My name is Alistair,” he says. 

Morrigan’s teeth touch her tongue as she almost asks why she should care. For some reason, she doesn’t. She can save it for later. Instead, she reaches out to swipe the bowl away from him. 

“Thanks,” he says again, ending the conversation as it had begun. 

“Do not thank me and presume that I am here to act as your maid,” Morrigan snaps, for lack of any other direction to run. 

“I would presume no such thing,” Alistair says. That tired look around his eyes has returned. 

She turns to take the bowl back to the hut for washing. 

“You’re nurse more than maid and unlikely saviour more than that,” Alistair says after her. 

Her skin burns with what she can only assume is hatred and fury. She turns back to glare at him. 

“I am _certainly_ not your nursemaid, nor am I your saviour. And you have my mother to thank for your _salvation_ if you wish to thank anyone,” she snaps. 

Alistair blinks at her first. It isn’t the cower or grovel she expects. The displeasure etches itself onto his face in the simple form of a line drawing itself between his eyebrows. 

“Then I shall thank her,” he says. “I can only wonder if she has any better manners than you.” 

“And suppose she doesn’t? My, my, what could she do to you?” Morrigan can’t help asking. 

“Frog-time, I suppose,” Alistair says, humourlessly. 

With that, Morrigan walks back to the hut, her footfalls just a bit heavier than before.


	3. Places of Exile

Morrigan knows the art of pretending quite well. She has studied her fellow creatures in the forest and across frozen plains until she has learned to become as they are, down to the very formation of their bones. Only, she has never considered her life as a shapechanger nor any deception she has enacted for game or survival to be something that would ever be _required_ of her. 

That changes after the female Warden awakens. 

Her mother has called upon her barely extant hospitality throughout their time as hosts for Alistair and the other Warden who remains asleep, occasionally whimpering, for quite a long time. 

When the elven woman awakens, Morrigan tries her best to show how much she prefers speaking to her rather than Alistair who turns everything into a joke or else grows sullen at the simplest things. 

She sets about making supper after she sends Rina outside, something that feels familiar and useful while she stays away from other people. 

She gives her mother a few moments to lay her trap and ensnare the two Grey Wardens into her web. She wants no part of it, even if her body and life are supposed to hang in the balance. She draws a breath and exhales, prepared to simply play along as her mother continues to play games with outsiders as she always has. At least these two will likely escape with their lives, and they do not know how lucky they are. 

But then it happens, all at once, and Morrigan feels like a rabbit running from a wolf. She will hardly have time to gather her things – which had been prepared, of course, but not for so quick a departure – before she leaves the only home she has ever known for a quest which she can hardly call her own. 

“I give you that which I value above all in this world,” Flemeth says to the Wardens. Morrigan’s heart is already beating faster as she feels as though the whole world spins around the spot upon which she stands. She anchors herself by hardening her gaze at her mother, wondering how it could possibly be that she cares so much when her entire life has been spent trying and failing to please her. 

“… because you _must_ succeed.” 

Flemeth finishes her speech to them just as Morrigan anchors her concentration to her mother’s words again. She does not know if it is a true impression, or if it is simply what she must believe to get her feet moving again, but she decides that once again her mother is manipulating everyone around her. Morrigan knows that she is not exempt. After all, she has been the person upon which her mother has practiced the most consistently for many years. She sets her teeth in her jaw and fixes her briefly watery gaze on nothing in particular. When she has willed herself under control, she straightens her posture and comports herself as coolly as the woman who raised her. 

“Allow me to get my things, if you please,” she says wearily when Rina says that she will not come to harm with them. It is a warming notion, but it is a naive one, too. 

Morrigan does not comment further as she goes round back of the hut where she picks up a back, her staff, and a few other things both she and her mother had determined she would need for her inevitable journey. In the very bottom of the pack, wrapped and placed carefully in a sturdy, polished box is the candle which her mother had presented to her in their first and only conversation about her future. 

She feels for the box, but she does not check what is inside before she slings the pack over her shoulder and quickly steels herself for the journey. The more she thinks about it, the more eager she is to leave Flemeth and her hut behind. 

She comes back around to the side of the hut and peers up the incline at Flemeth, Rina, and Alistair. Her eyes linger on him the longest, not because she particularly enjoys looking at him but because one day she will have to take him to bed, if all goes according to her mother’s plan. 

She rests a cool, calculating gaze on the old woman who is unknown and strange even to her own daughter. Perhaps it won’t. 

  


* * *

  


Morrigan does not know what she had expected, when she had set off with two Grey Wardens who somehow needed to form an army to wage a civil war. Whatever it had been, it did not include going anywhere near the Circle of Magi. 

When Rina determines that they are headed for the docks of Lake Calenhad, Morrigan promptly volunteers to stay behind and guard the camp with the Qunari man. 

She likes that he does not feel particularly inclined to make conversation, even when she passes through the common encampment to head toward her own. She prefers an even greater distance from the constant conversation between the others than he does. 

In the evenings when they have ceased their travels and have not come upon any darkspawn or bandits, Leliana chatters incessantly about Andraste and her visions. The newest addition to their strange assembly – an ancient golem – likes to cast suspicion in her direction at every moment it gets. The golem is, in that way, not entirely unlike Alistair, but it is easy enough to avoid. When Alistair is anywhere nearby, it is almost impossible not to hear the sound of his voice. 

Morrigan has no choice but to camp somewhat close to the others. Even with what distance she can manage, she has been unable to escape the ever increasing peals of laughter that boom from his chest. Rina is tolerable enough. At least she is a bit more practical, and she has thus far refrained from calling Morrigan an abomination at every turn. 

The trouble with Rina being likable, or at least difficult to find particular objection to, is that Alistair _likes_ her. Very much. 

He is not particularly lecherous about it. When they walk together, he often keeps pace with her. He hangs on every word she says. Sometimes, Morrigan notices his eyes wander, but if anything he seems reticent when Rina regards him with similar hunger. It seems only a matter of time. 

In her time in the Wilds, Morrigan had observed many animals' mating rituals. She had not sought to experience any of them, save for the human kind, but the most curious thing to her was how – of all the creatures she had lived alongside – people took the most time with it. That is, unless they simply chose to _take_ that which they desired, and Morrigan could not help the snarl of disgust that came over her face at the thought, even if she could see the practicality in it. 

Morrigan supposes it is no business of hers, except she wonders at the complication it might bring, when at last the Grey Wardens have seen their cause through to the end. If Alistair is so _honourable_ as he seems, she imagines it may be difficult to convince him to stray from another lover. She knows it must be done, should things go the way she supposes they will, but it could be a problem. 

She tends to her small fire a bit. She had been warming something to eat. 

She starts out of her private thoughts when she hears the dog approaching with a bellow. It announces its arrival to her, coming around to see if she will share. 

That means the others are back, then. 

She sighs and turns to see if Alistair, Rina, and Leliana have all returned. 

There is a fourth figure entering camp with them. Morrigan trains her eyes as a predator does. She no longer sees as a human sees but as a creature which might spring across the clearing on all fours and tear the throat from the newcomer should she feel threatened. 

When she makes out that she is not particularly threatened by the old woman in Circle robes, her eyes return to their natural state. She swipes an itching strand of hair away from her forehead. 

“No,” she tells the dog with a very gentle bat of her hand as he begs for something. 

She sighs a bit as she gives the gathered group one last look. They will have another mage in their midst, too. A proper, _tame_ mage under the thrall of the Chantry. 

Morrigan sighs and turns back to her small pot. It smells as pleasant as she can expect it to. She stirs its contents a bit and takes in the warmth of the steam. 

The dog slobbers nearby. He whines. 

Morrigan sighs and rummages around in her pack until she finds a prepared treat for him. She tosses it a bit back toward camp. 

“Take it and tell no one,” she cautions him with a faint smirk. She begins to eat as the dog bounds after his boon. When he has found it, he wanders back toward Rina and Alistair who are helping the old woman find her own place around their shared fire. 

  


* * *

  


Wynne grates on Morrigan more and more with each passing day. Even when she is beyond the reach of the Circle and its templars, perhaps for the first time in her life, she still spouts their drivel. It seems so ingrained in her that she cannot see how the world all around her teaches a different story than that she should be glad to be subjugated. 

One day, because she finds herself trudging alongside the old woman, she decides upon a new question. 

“Had you a mother once, old woman? Or were you an unwanted orphan.” 

“Obviously I had a mother, child,” Wynne replies. Morrigan does not miss the way the retort meets her own address. She huffs, not amused. 

“Yes, but were you ripped away from her? Dragged kicking and screaming from your home to the Circle you advocate so much?” 

Wynne looks over at her, but Morrigan does not grant her a look into her eyes. 

“I do not remember my mother,” she replies. Morrigan slips up and glances into her gaze for a moment. 

Morrigan recovers her distance and shrugs her shoulders back. 

“I suppose that explains your heedlessness of one obvious objection to such an institution.” 

Wynne is so quiet that Morrigan thinks she has won at least that point, but eventually Wynne falls back into step with her. 

“There are many children who weep for their mothers and fathers. Some even waste precious energy and _years_ trying to escape.” 

“And that is the great, merciful thing you preach the need for,” Morrigan says, almost in a singsong, but she cannot help conjuring the image in her mind. 

She does not care in particular for the nameless, faceless lost children of the Circle. She suffered as a child, too. Nearly all children, born outside castle walls, suffer in one way or another. Only, she considers being trapped with no hope of escape. And she imagines the child she will one day bear, ripped away by templars and locked away, severed from the Fade even when its soul may be something that surpasses all such bounds. She grips her staff tighter in her hand. 

She feels Wynne’s eyes staring at her. 

“I am surprised at you,” she remarks in that condescending tone she cherishes so. Morrigan knows she will finish her thought without being prompted, so she sets her jaw and settles her teeth against one another. “You care so little for those around you, and yet you care for imagined children.” 

“Spare me your enlightenment,” Morrigan snaps, and she quickens her pace to avoid speaking to anyone.

  


* * *

  


The Deep Roads do not disturb Morrigan as much as they disturb Zevran, who looks more nervous than he had when he’d realized he was completely at Rina’s mercy when first they met. She would prefer the fresh air, but the smell the damp stone gives off is far from the worst thing she has ever smelled. 

“Do Crows often inhabit caves?” she asks casually. “If they do, they are not very like the bird with which they share their name.” 

Zevran chuckles in a brief snatch of breath. 

“I believe the reference is more to their colour and its blending in with shadows quite well, my dear,” he says. 

“Oh, thank you for explaining. I do believe it might have troubled me away from sleep.” 

“I can think of comforts which may lull you to sleep,” he replies. He seems to be a bit less jumpy as he speaks, even if the content of his speech is less than inspiring to Morrigan. 

“And how am I to know whether you mean fleshly entanglement or poison?” 

“Oh, I could mean either, but I promise it was not a threat,” Zevran croons at her. 

“Did you… just… say ‘fleshly entanglement’?” Alistair asks, his steps scuffing against the rocky ground beneath their feet. 

Rina laughs more at Alistair’s question than anything else, it would seem. She keeps fairly quiet and looks around, though, her steps all but silent. 

“I do believe I did,” Morrigan agrees. “Do not tell me your ears are failing you.” 

She notices a scowl come across Alistair’s face. His eyes go a bit hard, distant. Colder than she remembers seeing them. It lasts only for a moment. 

“And by that… did you mean...” he manages, but the question seems to fall short of its execution. 

“Did I mean intercourse between a man and a woman?” Morrigan presses, snapping softly. 

“Well, yes...” 

“I do not believe you to be _completely_ ignorant of such things anymore, are you, Alistair?” Morrigan presses, putting on an innocent tone that she knows that he of all people will never believe. At least that is one small credit to his strength as a man. 

“Leave him alone,” Rina says without much force. She reaches out to take hold of Alistair’s forearm for just a moment. She is smiling with amusement that Alistair seems to perceive as betrayal. 

“Oh, you’re all just—”

“Might I add that such entanglements need not be only between a man and a woman?” Zevran prods cheerfully. 

“Alistair?” Rina asks. She lets go of his forearm and turns so she is guarding his back and he is guarding hers. 

Morrigan readies her staff, glancing behind herself to make sure the threat does not flank her unawares. 

“Yeah, I think we’re… not alone,” he agrees. 

The threat is ahead and not behind, but their goal lies ahead and there is no point in running. 

As Morrigan understands it, the darkspawn sense Grey Wardens, too. 

Morrigan has learned not to panic at the sight of the unsightly creatures. They are not as other animals or people. They make her believe in a clear distinction between pure and impure when nothing else has given her such a sense. 

She focuses her magic and lulls a cluster of them into sleep before tearing their feeble minds apart from within. Some others nearby seem to catch that she is the foe that has felled their kin. A genlock lumbers toward her with murder in its eyes. 

She glares it down and prepares to strike it down, to freeze it to itself and watch it shatter. 

“Hey! Over here!” Alistair cries, making quite a racket with his sword and shield. 

Rina and Zevran prefer more subtle tactics, but Morrigan is not ungrateful that the effort confuses the poor, doomed creature long enough for her to dispatch it before it ever reaches Alistair. 

They hold their own in the fight, making their way forward through the dark tunnels length by length, but the little family of genlocks seem endless. It is a problem of numbers rather than skill. Morrigan lags behind the other three, because she is far better at casting magic wisely from a distance. Zevran has gone into the fray, using his blades rather than a bow. 

Suddenly, the tunnel opens up to a much wider area. An entire city, lost to the dwarves and inhabited by the foul creatures they fight. 

Alistair sees a way to use the renewed terrain this advantage. 

She can hear his effort as he bounds his way up onto an old, short wall. 

He aggravates more of the genlocks into coming toward him. 

This allows Rina and Zevran to find far more advantageous positions, and Morrigan tries to come up with her back to a wall so there will be at least one position from which the darkspawn cannot sneak up on her. 

Morrigan knows that she is their only source of healing, but when she can see the way they falter and bleed, she suddenly wishes that the old woman were here to help her. It is at least one thing Wynne is better at. 

Morrigan herself is growing weary, knowing that she is straining her mana reserves. She has a potion of lyrium with her, but she does not want to waste it or have its bottle shatter on the ground in the fight. 

She has to choose her battle – quite literally – and while the others are on their feet, she chooses not to worry herself with their cuts and bruises. 

Finally, the area is clear. It is quiet. Eerily so. They are surrounded by the slain and dying little creatures, and Morrigan crinkles her nose with distaste. She walks to catch up. When she sees blood trickling from Rina’s temple, she fixes it without a fuss. 

“Well, I definitely don’t look forward to doing this alone,” Alistair remarks. 

It strikes Morrigan as strangely ominous, but before anything comes of it, he decides to wander off ahead over a sturdy, ancient bridge. 

Rina pauses at Morrigan’s side. She looks to be gladly catching her breath. She watches after Alistair and a grim sort of smile forms on her face. It isn’t quite a smile. 

“We die down here,” she says as if she were discussing the weather. 

“Have you developed a morbid sense of prophecy?” Morrigan asks, blinking at her. 

“No, it’s… I don’t fully understand it yet, but he told me that when we… get older, if we live long enough, the Taint drives us a little crazy. And it’s… tradition or compulsion, but we go to the Deep Roads. We hear the same song the darkspawn do, in our sleep sometimes. But eventually we start hearing it all the time, and we… come down here to die. Take as many of these things out with us as we can.” 

Morrigan is puzzled about why the Warden has suddenly shared this with her. Zevran was standing in hearing of it, too. She glances at him but finds no further illumination. 

“Ah, so instead of considering your life forfeit if you fail, Grey Wardens’ lives are forfeit if they succeed,” Zevran says, as though it is a philosophical discussion. 

Morrigan rubs her lips together, trying to think of something to say, but then she hears Alistair’s voice from afar again and a roar. She runs with the others toward the sound to see what has happened. 

Though he fights the great ogre valiantly, Alistair has tried to challenge the beast too close on his own. It sweeps him up into its grasp. He grunts and slams his shield into its face, but it glances off the blow. 

“Alistair!” Rina cries in horror as she in Zevran move to help him. Rina and Zevran manage to cause the ogre so much pain and distraction that it casts Alistair aside, angry more than subdued. 

Alistair lands on his back. He doesn’t move to get up. 

Morrigan looks around and sees no smaller darkspawn coming toward him. She could try to heal him from where she stands, but she does not want to waste her feeble healing efforts and flagging mana reserves on a man who is beyond hope. She does not know why her heart seems to beat its way closer to her mouth. 

She can tell Rina and Zevran are weakening the creature, circling it and confusing it into its own demise. 

Morrigan uses her staff to steady herself as she lowers herself down to her knees beside Alistair. His eyes are closed. She watches his chest for a moment, and she believes she sees it rising and falling, but in his armour she is not entirely sure. She reaches out with her fingers. She hesitates once, finding it strange, but then touches his jaw and lifts his chin. She feels the hair growing back along it. More importantly, she feels his heartbeat. 

Worth trying, then. 

Morrigan feels the ground shake. The great beast falls. In an instant after being certain that the thing is dead, Rina is hitting her knees hard against the ground, opposite Morrigan. She is far more impassioned with her efforts to make sure he is alive. 

“Careful, unless you would like me to heal his broken bones in the wrong direction,” Morrigan says. She draws out her bottle of lyrium potion. She uncaps it and notices, only just before she tilts it up to ingest it, that blood leaks from the corner of Alistair’s mouth. 

He does not wake or seem to improve very much at Morrigan’s first effort at healing. There is a very faint glow that issues from Morrigan’s hands and seeks out a cut through his eyebrow. It seals that up, fresh as a child, but more blood leaks from his mouth. 

She hears a soft, prayerful chorus of ‘no, no, no,’ and ‘please,’ and then more fervent demands. 

Morrigan feels irritated more than frightened. She tries again, pouring more and more of herself into it this time. 

Alistair gasps suddenly, and because she is leaning one hand firmly against his breastplate, he reaches up and grabs her by the arm the moment his eyes open. He blinks a few times, blearily. 

“Morrigan?” he asks. “Morrigan, why’re you on top of me?” 

“Putting you back together, it would seem,” Morrigan replies. She is a bit haughty as she snatches her arm away from him and rises to her feet. She dusts herself off, leaving helping Alistair up to the other two. She will be glad when they return to the proper dwarven city, if only so she can rest. 

She glances back when she hears that Zevran also expresses relief that Alistair is alive. 

She looks away from them, trying not to wander so far that it is a death sentence. 

The thought of a particular candle in her pack comes to mind. She closes her eyes and sees the blood trickling from the corner of Alistair’s mouth. It taunts her with the thought of _failure_. 

“Thank you, Morrigan,” Alistair says with a rough clearing of his throat as they are clustered together again, Rina leading the way to obtain whatever blasted thing they are out here in these ruins to get. 

“I needn’t your thanks,” she grumbles. 

“I… think you do,” he says. “Or, I do. I mean, I should. I was… almost dead back there. I think. Bit of a blur, really.” 

“Sometimes valiance is indistinguishable from stupidity,” she says, no less uncomfortable with continuing the conversation. 

“Aw, you think I’m valiant?” Alistair taunts. 

Morrigan briefly wishes she hadn’t done such a good job and glares up at his eyes. They have a light in them again. For an instant, she feels as though she might be proud of her work. 

He wanders to rejoin Rina. She thinks again of the _problem_ that is, if he is to be the _father of her child_. She is grateful that their leader takes that eager gaze of his, as she does not think she could bear up under such giddy attention. At least that problem is not one which would separate her from her and her mother’s goals forever.


	4. Family History

Morrigan’s fingers grip the strange leather as she sits in her tent, legs tucked beneath herself. She feels a cold wind blow through the trees as the firelight dapples its glow across the pages. Morrigan has no trouble following the words on the page, but she has trouble grasping what they mean. 

No, it is less that she misunderstands what she reads than that she does not wish to believe it. 

It is a weakness. She feels her eyes flood with a sudden, surprising flow of tears. She is _angry_ with them and drops the book onto her lap. She wipes the tears from her eyes, noticing the way there is a dark smear on the back of her hand. She reaches down and takes a handful of the surprisingly thick grass. It is the time of year when Ferelden is not such a desolate place, which makes the cold wind that licks at her skin feel all the more like a trap coiling around her. 

The trap is not only coiling around her. It has been poised to spring her entire life. 

She wonders if Flemeth watches her now. She wonders if she laughs or if she knows to be afraid. 

Fire flares at her fingertips and a few strands of the lush grass burn to dry ash. She will not be sacrificed to an old woman’s vanity, no matter how alone it leaves her. She has come all this way to carry out her mother’s plans for her, only to learn that it has never been and never will be enough. 

She feels like a fool. She has believed herself freer than those mages in the Circle, but as far as the ancient Flemeth is concerned, she is little more than a doll. 

She breathes raggedly until, instead of cold, the air around her feels too warm. She stands up, letting the book fall carelessly close to the edge of her campfire. She paces away from its warmth and wanders closer to the other tents. She considers herself for a moment, looking back at where she had been prepared to sleep, perhaps foolishly pleased or even _comforted_ by something that had been her mother’s, something lost but found. 

“Morrigan!” Rina calls out. “Come over here! Leliana’s going to play a song.” 

Morrigan does not even shrink back at the thought. She doesn’t make a biting comment about the bard’s instrument or intent. The woman can play, if nothing else. Instead, she puts on a smile and joins the others at the first request for once. She will not lie down at die after coming all this way. No, she will ask – bargain if she has to – for her freedom, and she knows the only way she will ever find it. 

If her mother is dead, she is not entirely certain of what her purpose in remaining with the others will be. Perhaps she will see the plan through – save the old god from itself. Save Rina and Alistair from choosing the death of one or the other. Or perhaps she will find it within her to be so capricious as to walk away and leave them to their fate. Whatever it will be, Flemeth will have no part in it if Morrigan has her way.


	5. Alistair's Vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note content warnings at the bottom of Chapter 1 if you wish to be warned for the content of this chapter.

Alistair thinks he would rather be anywhere in Thedas than Denerim. It’s not the pickpockets. It’s the fact that when they walk by The Wonders of Thedas, he starts to speak and cannot stop himself before he shares a stupid, childish anecdote that he can imagine would have landed much differently had, well, a lot of things gone differently. 

It’s not that his face burns when they are even in sight of The Pearl, let alone inside it. It’s that there is a scent inside its walls that is familiar to him now in a way he wishes he could ever scrub clean. Oghren’s snide comments don’t help at all. 

It’s that he wants to be blinding drunk, but he knows that would be irresponsible, pathetic, and look like weakness. It would look like he was blaming _her_ when it’s all his fault that he had not foreseen what not being honest from the start would get him. 

It’s that falling into step beside her hurts. It’s that he feels like his blood is on fire when he looks at her or needs to speak to her or when she tries to strike up a conversation with him. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to her. It’s that he doesn’t know what to talk _about_ now that there are words and _things_ between them that he can never joke himself free of. Things he can never undo. He wants to apologize to her, but he knows that such an apology would be more insult than recompense. 

And so, he walks along, trying to fall into step beside someone else or drag behind. He experiences Denerim in a haze that feels like fever. He would not even notice if someone did try to pickpocket him, and if some ladies from The Pearl came along complimenting him with insincere praise, he doesn’t know what he would do anymore. 

He feels reckless and stupid and ashamed of himself, until… 

They are trudging along, through the market. Some of the others have scattered, and he knows not where, but as he turns his head he finds Rina. He had been following her, obedient and trying not to think, when a thought had suddenly occurred to him. 

“Rina?” he asks, clearing his throat after speaking her name. His face warms uncomfortably as she looks at him. They are not alone, he notes, and he cannot help but feel there is a weight to her name now that he can do nothing about. There is guilt, and he cannot stop feeling it, even if she would prefer him to. He looks away the moment she meets his eyes, because he doesn’t want to start thinking traitorous thoughts about how beautiful and clear they _still_ are. 

“Yes, Alistair?” she asks, and he really wishes she hadn’t. He feels as if _his_ name has become an accusation, even though it is nowhere apparent in her tone or the look on her face. And if she’s being patient and delicate with him after her decision in Redcliffe, then that’s even _worse_ , and he does not know how he would ever hear the end of it if Oghren ever sobered up long enough to put the pieces together. And Maker, how he wished to be drunk, again. 

“You know,” he says, looking down at his boots. He glances back up at Rina from time to time. “Maybe this isn’t the… _best_ time to be thinking about this,” he apologizes – and when would it ever be? He has asked too much of her already. “… but I’ve… something to ask you.” 

He sees the slight reddening across her freckles, and he closes his eyes as if bracing for impact. He knows what it could sound like. He doesn’t want her to get the idea that he hasn’t accepted her decision or that he would ever think to question it in front of people. He keeps his mouth moving, because maybe it will alleviate that flash of nervousness he hopes he imagined. He opens his eyes, squares himself, and tries to speak like a normal person. 

“Seeing as we’re in Denerim now, I’m wondering if we might be able to look someone up.” 

“You have a friend outside the Grey Wardens?” Rina asks. 

Alistair hears Zevran snort short of a laugh. He has stopped being suspicious of his every move, but for a moment he wants to at least snap at him a bit. His very existence has become humiliating enough as it is. The harsh glance he gives him finds nothing but mild amusement, though, and sober Alistair is at least capable of recognizing when he could only make things worse. 

Instead, he throws himself headlong into the conversation, because he doesn’t know how else he’ll get through it or ever learn to just _talk_ to her again. Whatever has passed between them and whatever she does or _doesn’t_ want anymore, he cares about her. And even if he were capable of casting that aside, she is their leader by his own appointment, and his opinion about why that should be hasn’t and will not change. He is a Grey Warden. They are Grey Wardens. And there is no way but forward until the Blight is ended. If he is going to proffer a distraction, he may as well be quick about it. 

“I’m not talking about a friend, exactly,” he says. 

One of Rina’s eyebrows lifts a little. He could question how she might presume to question _that_ of all things, but he almost immediately cannot bear the thought. 

“And _no_ , it’s not that sort of friend either,” he insists. He almost sounds confident about it, though he does not know if it is exactly something to be proud of, under the circumstances. “The thing is, I have a sister – a half-sister. I told you about my mother, right? She was a servant at Redcliffe castle and she had a daughter. Only, I never knew about her. I don’t think she knew about me, either. They kept my birth a secret, after all. But, after I became a Grey Warden, I did some checking and… well, I found out she’s still alive. In Denerim.” 

He goes silent for a moment after feeling unable to stop talking. He watches Rina, waiting for an answer of some kind. It occurs to him, as he reminds himself to breathe, that he could excuse himself and go hunting for his sister on his own. Perhaps it is what he should have done, but he feels duty-bound to follow Rina’s command. Not only that, but perhaps he had wanted her to know that he had some family left. Some sense of responsibility. The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t want to think too deeply about why he had needed her to know. 

Rina stares at him for a moment, her face difficult to read. All he knows is that she is thinking, and she is intelligent, and for a moment he fears that she will voice an objection that he will have no choice but to listen to. Then her eyes light up, and he hopes, as much as it hurts faintly to see her being so _inspiring_ but to know what is no longer, in any way, ‘his.’ 

“That’s wonderful news!” she says. “Have you tried contacting her?” 

“I believe if he had, we would not be having this conversation,” Zevran remarks. It is hard to know whether he is trying to be encouraging or not, so Alistair ignores him. 

At a glance, Morrigan seems to be ignoring all of them. She peers toward the market stalls in the center of the square, but she does not approach them. Her arms are folded across her chest, doing the job clothes do for most people. 

“She’s the only _real_ family I have left,” Alistair explains, glancing over the emphasis without allowing himself to think too much. “The only family _not_ also mixed up in the whole ‘Royal Thing,’” he says, dismissing it quickly because he does not want to think what he has already lost to the ‘Royal Thing,’ – not least of all the woman standing in front of him. “I’ve just been thinking that maybe it’s time I went to see her. With the Blight coming and everything, I – I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to see her. Maybe I can help her. Warn her about the danger! I don’t know.” 

“Well...” Rina says. She glances over at Zevran and then scuffs her boot against the ground, her toe digging in a bit. 

Alistair knows that she was born in the Denerim Alienage. She has told him a bit about it. He wonders if he really should have simply struck out on his own. The Alienage is under quarantine, and they have not yet been able to find out why. He wonders if he is being terribly selfish. 

“If you want to, we could try,” she says as she looks back up at him. 

“Could we?” Alistair asks. His brow creases with concern, not just for himself and the sister he has never met. “I’d appreciate that,” he assures her. “If something happened to her and I never went to at least _see her_ … I don’t know if I could forgive myself.” 

Rina nods and finally nods her head a bit to indicate that they should keep walking, making their way through to explore each doorway and alley in the market district. Alistair finds that it feels a little less stupid to keep walking beside her if he keeps talking. 

“Her name is Goldanna, and I think she remarried but still lives just outside the Alienage. If we’re… in the area, then. Well, it’s worth a look.” 

The four of them walk along and are only sidetracked for about an hour before they come around to the far side of the central market stalls at last. Alistair has caught his breath when he looks at a particular door and a little sign – poorly painted and rain-smeared – just beside the door. There appears to be a child’s drawing of a basin and board for washing and a few comically large bubbles tacked up beneath it, not quite as worse for wear as the sign. 

She must have children, too, he thinks. The thought of having a niece or nephew does funny things to his chest. Funny things which are a warm, welcome reprieve from the other funny things that have been going on in his chest lately. 

“That’s… my sister’s house,” he informs his companions. By now, Leliana has returned from her interest in the Orlesian merchant and fallen into step with Rina, Zevran, and Morrigan. He senses all their eyes on him. He looks to Rina. Their leader. “I’m almost sure of it. This is—” He glances again, almost giddy at the child’s drawing. “Yes! This is the right address.” 

He pauses for a moment and looks wistfully over at the door. His hands search for purchase against his armour, fingers feeling at the softer parts of it. 

“She could be inside,” he observes. “Could we… go and see?” he asks, hoping Rina has not changed her mind. He also hopes, less acutely, that the others who are watching him do not look at him as if he is such a fool as he imagines. 

“Wouldn’t you rather meet her on your own?” Rina asks. He sees her glancing at the door, too. She reaches up and pushes some of her dark red hair behind her ear. His heart sinks a little as it occurs to him that this might seem _inappropriate_. 

“Do I seem a little nervous?” he asks, before he knows what he is doing. Trying to put her at ease by _making_ a fool of himself, probably. “I am. I really don’t know what to expect. I’d like you to be there with me, if you’re willing,” he admits. She has been there with him since Ostagar, and she is still the only one among them he would dare to ask. But maybe it is too much. “Or we could… leave! I suppose. We really don’t have time to pay a visit, do we? Maybe we should go...” 

Rina sighs and rolls her eyes at him. He doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad sign. 

“Fine, let’s see if she’s home,” she says. She is already turning to approach the door. She glances back at the others, and she does not even have to say anything for them to fall into place, waiting around, not looking suspicious. 

“Will she even know who I am?” Alistair asks, excited again in spite of everything. “Does she even know I exist? My sister. That sounds very strange,” he continues. He tries out the word: “‘sister. Siiiiissster.’ Hmm. Now I’m babbling,” he says, as he realizes that Rina’s hand is poised to try the door. He wonders why she does not knock, but then it occurs to him that her home is apparently his sister’s place of business, also. “Maybe we should go,” he encourages himself, too. “Let’s go. Let’s just… go.” 

Rina opens the door, and Alistair steps inside behind her. It is a dingy place, and there is a damp smell. It is not entirely unpleasant, but it isn’t very pleasant either. A woman appears from the back of the house, inquiring about whether they have any linens to watch. Alistair feels his heart pounding in his chest, making it rather warm inside his armour. As nervous as he is, he has a spark of hope that he might make her day by offering her something more than another job to do. 

He is wrong about that, too. 

He leaves Goldanna’s house feeling defeated. Rina had come to his defense, and for the first time he is a little ashamed of that, too. She had objected to the fact that Goldanna only wanted his money, but even after he has walked away without promising her any, he wonders if his _sister’s_ stance is entirely unfair. What is special enough about him to merit being excited to be related to him? It isn’t as if he has Ferelden’s purse strings at his fingertips. 

He has a conversation with Rina outside Goldanna’s house, but his temples are throbbing with disappointment and shame and a little bit of directionless anger. That last bit only gets worse when Rina says something to him about everyone being out for themselves. He knows she is trying to be a good friend, and perhaps she is, but it stuns him a little. 

His mind starts churning it over, but he shakes his head as if he can fend it off, like a dog avoiding a scent it finds too strong. He ignores the eyes on him. Perhaps, especially, the eyes that do not belong to the woman he had loved. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he tells her – and their audience – abruptly. He turns away and trudges off on his own. He does not speak of where he is going, though he makes no effort to conceal it, either. 

  


* * *

  


A couple of hours later, Alistair is sitting upon a chair in the Gnawed Noble Tavern. He is a paying customer, this time. No one here knows that he is technically _of noble blood_ , like their preferred clientele, but his Grey Warden armour and coin are enough to keep anyone from running him out, even if they glance down their noses at him. 

The bitter irony that he had refused Goldanna money, anxious about not having enough to spare for their desperate mission, and is now drinking his money down is not lost on him. His hand tightens against cool metal. Perhaps he had _wanted_ to prove her right about him. If there is grim satisfaction to be found in that, he hasn’t found it yet. He tries another sip. 

He is imbibing the cheapest ale the tavern has on offer, steady and with determination. Inhaling, when his nose is just inside the tankard, isn’t a particularly pleasant experience, but his purpose here is not to enjoy fine wine. He had wanted to be drunk. And now he is. 

He had glanced at the door when it had opened the first few times. He had expected someone to come for him right away. He had even rehearsed what he would tell Leliana, Zevran, and even Wynne. Oghren would just join him. Sten, too, maybe, had he dared or deigned to come through the door. He had _not_ rehearsed what he would say to Rina, because what could he possibly say that wouldn’t make him even more of an _idiot_ than he already was? 

No one had raced after him. 

As he takes another moment to pause and stare down at the liquid, he wonders if they all might as soon be rid of him. He sloshes it around a little. He notices how some of it sloshes more than he had intended, spilling out and over onto his hand. He smiles a bit stupidly at how drunk he is, feeling he has nothing else to smile about. 

And he should have known better than to smile, because the moment he does, some woman with her breasts out for all to see comes and sits down at the other chair sat around the little round table. 

The woman sighs. He supposes he can empathize. Sometimes it is difficult not to be open about one’s contempt for the requirements of one’s job. He turns his attention toward the bottom of the tankard rather than her breasts. 

“What are you doing?” she asks. She sounds weary to the bone. Disgusted, even. He hopes she has made enough coin for her bed and mouths to feed for the night, because he cannot imagine she will be doing much more business for the evening with that tone. But then again, he has limited experience, and perhaps that does it for some people. 

He doesn’t try to answer her until he has drained his drink. He sets the tankard down heavily and continues staring into the bottom of it for a moment. He considers whether or not he should ask the barmaid for another. He thinks he should look anywhere but at the woman’s breasts. 

They are nice to behold, but he has no plans to become _her_ customer. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying for smooth, polite, even as he can’t look her in the eye for fear that his drunken eyes will get stuck on her chest. “But I’m afraid my coin purse is not quite heavy enough to afford such a lovely lady as yourself.” He blinks at his empty tankard again. He feels like he could almost fall asleep. His words seem stuck together, however smoothly he tries to deliver them. He supposes he should at least look up – for a moment, only. “Besides, I doubt you’d even have a very good time, because my heart is still wasted on another.” 

It sounded good in his head. A bit poetic and tragic, even. He thinks that he can send the young woman away, feeling nice and respected but perhaps a little regretful that he had been unable to bring himself to patronize her. 

Of course, there is no telling how much of what he sent out of his lips had come across correctly in their delivery, in his inebriated state. Though if his ears do not deceive him, he doesn’t think it’s a completely hopeless fantasy, until he finally lifts his gaze to square on the woman’s eyes. The woman’s unnerving, distinctive, yellow eyes. 

His peripheral vision – and his forward-facing vision, for that matter – must also be drunk. 

His heart starts to thud in his chest. It would like to race away, along with the rest of him, but it is too heavy with alcohol, too. 

She looks right back at him. Her lips show no hint of amusement nor of anger. He really wishes he hadn’t looked at her lips, but her entire face is right there across from him. His face warms slowly but steadily, blooming like a flower. 

“Oh, I see,” she says with exaggerated, feigned interest. “And whom might it be wasted upon?” 

“M—Morrigan?” he asks, his lips sticking together at first. 

Morrigan widens her eyes just a little and glances briefly toward the table. She rubs her thumb against a rough spot in the wood. An instant later, she snorts softly, her lips curving into a sly smile that reminds him of a snake, preparing to spring. 

“Oh, _that_ certainly cannot be true. Although, I can assure you that you are right about one thing.” 

She pauses. She watches him expectantly. His legs are too tingly to reliably carry him from the table to the door, or even behind the bar to seek refuge. He is at her mercy. 

“What?” he asks, because he cannot work out another course of action. He knows, already, that there is no way that whatever he has been ‘right’ about will be flattering, coming from her. 

“Your coin purse is nowhere _near_ heavy enough to persuade me,” she says. Her smile settles into something that shows fewer teeth but lingers at the corners. 

Alistair sighs and tests his elbows heavily against the small wooden table. It puts him a little bit closer to her, but what dignity does he have left? 

“‘Course it isn’t. Swamp witches don’t use coin,” he murmurs, losing volume and conviction as he rests his jaw heavily against one hand. 

Seeing that she has won, Morrigan seems to let it rest. She sits back in the chair a bit, lifting one arm so she might brace it against the chair. 

“So, did you draw the short straw?” he asks, when she doesn’t seem to be going away, and he realizes that he will have to speak to her again one day. 

Morrigan reaches out and takes the empty tankard. She inspects it as if she has never seen one before. She sniffs it and makes a face. 

“I see you have not come here for enjoyment,” she says, ignoring his question. 

“Not exactly, no,” he agrees. 

“Do you intend to return?” she asks. 

Alistair narrows his eyes at her. He thinks about closing them and trying to pass out, but he doesn’t think it would work without her _help_ , and he definitely doesn’t want that. 

“Return where?” he asks, playing dumb for the sake of it. It’s not like it’s much of an act at the moment. She fixes him with a warning stare, folding her arms. It occurs to him that she must be cold, even close to a tavern fire. 

“I am not interested in playing games, Alistair.” 

“No, you’ve come to play with your food,” Alistair answers her miserably. 

She frowns a bit and one eyebrow inclines higher than the other. 

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

“Never mind,” he says. He had sensed no particular danger in the question, but he still doesn’t feel like explaining anything, least of all how he _feels_. “You can go back and tell them, if you want. I’ll dry out by midday tomorrow, and I’ll… come back and be good Grey Warden Alistair,” he drones sluggishly. 

“That suggests you were a good Grey Warden to begin with.” 

“And aren’t you the expert on ‘good.’ You’re an evil witch.” 

He notices that Morrigan glances around them. He hates that he cannot immediately bat away the thought that perhaps she is fearful of his careless words. He doubts anyone else is listening, though. 

Morrigan rolls her shoulders and looks back at him again. He hears her exhale through her nose. 

“Yes, and you’re the bastard son of a king,” she remarks. 

He knows he deserves it, but he glares at her anyway. 

“Could you not?” he asks. 

“We _are_ in a _noble_ tavern,” Morrigan insists, adopting that breezy tone she takes on when she does not care about anyone or anything. 

“And they let you through the door,” he snarls. He looks about himself, trying to summon the strength and balance to rise to his feet. 

“Well, no wonder there. _You_ thought I was a _woman for hire_.” 

Alistair gestures loosely with his hand to all of her. 

“Look at how you’re dressed! Or not-dressed, as the case may be.” 

Morrigan looks upward and scoffs. 

“I am not naked, am I?” 

“No, but—” Alistair splutters and gives up, again. He glances away from her, frustrated. He stares long enough that his well-lubricated mind slides on to a different, only somewhat related topic. “Goldanna said she was one. A ‘tart,’” he spat quietly. 

“Ah, yes. So you met this sibling of yours?” 

“Half-sister,” Alistair says, as if that might distance him from her by a little. Only, if what she had said about their mother was true, it’s only positioning himself closer to the worse half. The half he has lost so much trying to shy away from. “But yes.” 

“And she turned out to be an insufferable hag?” 

Morrigan stares down at the table, just shy of Alistair’s elbows. She seems to be tracing the wood grain with her fingers, searching for more faults. 

Alistair frowns and slides an elbow forward with some intent to nudge one of her hands away. It doesn’t work. 

“You’d have liked her,” Alistair says sourly. “You two have a lot in common.” 

Finally, he summons the strength to get up. He rises in a flourish of determination, but he feels like he is being spun around and around by the base of his skull. He turns himself and decides to go to the nearest possible destination: a long bench just a few strides behind his previous chair. 

He hears the sound of Morrigan’s chair sliding out. It squeaks across the floor unpleasantly, and it tells him he is being pursued as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the bench. He leans forward, elbows finding his knees this time. He rubs his forehead as she sits across from him on the opposing bench. 

“And you let her berate you?” Morrigan demands. He doesn’t even know why she’s asking. “Without punishment?” 

He looks up at her, sharply. Her questions just _confuse_ him, and in his current state, it’s infuriating. The look on her face is not one he recognizes. He studies her, his own brow furrowed deeply. Her expression is determined, but it is not sly or nasty. It is expectant. It coils up in the back of his mind that she is speaking as though she knows him well enough to know that he would have been _capable_ of retribution. When really, if she had been paying attention, she might have known that he was capable of little retribution at all. 

“It’s moment’s like this,” he says, trying to coolly fire the best missile he can manage, “when I truly appreciate the difference between you and me.” 

He sees the _hurt_ across her face, if only for an instant. It isn’t something he likes. It doesn’t satisfy him. It isn’t the hurt of losing a fight she had started, for once. 

She looks left and right along the length of the bench. He thinks she looks smaller, somehow. Alone. 

Her brow crinkles with anger now, but it does not erase the image of how stunned she had been. It makes him even angrier – how stupid it seems – but she looked as if he had betrayed her. Or, at least, gravely disappointed her. 

She stops looking about and scowls at him. Her arms straighten tightly down at her sides, braced to help her up after she has spoken. 

“‘Tis moments like this when I truly wonder at the difference between you and a toadstool.” 

Then she gets up, and she marches to the door. She lets herself out, and as he watches her the light outside, framed around her silhouette, almost blinds him. The door slams shut. 

He is left waiting for the dazzlement to clear from his eyes. He turns his gaze back to the space Morrigan had vacated. A ghostly image of her leaving flashes against it until he is left alone in the dim tavern once again. The thought that it is possible for him to disappoint her claws at him, more than any drunken thought should. 

He glances toward the door as he leans back against the bench, weary no matter what thought torments him now. He closes his eyes. He almost-dreams of going after Morrigan. He thinks about looking left and right outside, seeing her, chasing her. He imagines that he might be able to take her by the forearm, stop her. Apologize. 

His lips curve upward at the thought. More bitter irony. He slumps down on the bench, taking up more of it. He realizes that it would be a hopeless pursuit. He decides that whether Rina deems it a necessary expense for the others or not, he’s going to go to another, cheaper tavern and buy himself a bed. He cannot imagine facing any of them until tomorrow. 

  


* * *

  


The following morning, Alistair wakes upon a tiny bed, alone. He rests his forearm against his forehead, shielding his eyes from some of the light. His head feels like it is stuffed with straw. 

He gets out of bed and goes about washing up. He tries to put his armour back on without anything being terribly unfastened or crooked. He desperately needs water to drink, and his head is splitting. 

He wishes he were drunk again. 

Only, he really doesn’t. 

After he goes and says the necessary pleasantries to the innkeeper – an old woman with a look of pity in her eyes – he strides back out into the streets of Denerim. He looks around, trying to orient himself to exactly where he is. 

The sunlight doesn’t do him any favours. He walks a few steps away from the front of the inn. He wanders around a corner, directionless. He finds a spot that no one is using for anything else. He empties some of the burning liquid from his stomach. 

He strides on, with no other real choice. He gets himself some more water to drink. Eventually, he sees something he recognizes. 

He keeps going until he makes his way back to the market district. Around yet another alleyway, he spots Rina’s familiar form. He skulks back to her. Oghren appears from somewhere and whacks him so firmly on his low back that it lances down his legs, congratulating him on imaginary exploits. 

“So you finally decided to join us?” Rina asks. Alistair cannot quite work out whether she is being impatient or trying to joke to put him at ease. 

Either way he says, “I’m… really sorry about yesterday.” 

“You had quite the shock, I suppose,” Leliana chimes in sympathetically. He remembers when he had, unkindly, thought she was crazy. Now, he’s glad to have her around for peacemaking purposes. 

“I still made an ass of myself,” he admits. 

This seems to satisfy most of any disgruntled expressions on faces around him. He feels heat on the tops of his ears, and it’s very unpleasant with his headache. 

When they get moving again, Morrigan slides past him. She wanders over to speak to Sten. He feels like there’s something pointed about it, even if they don’t often greet one another warmly by any means. 

He knows there is something he meant to say to her, but for the rest of their time in Denerim, he can’t remember what.


	6. Smoke and Sparks

Alistair settles into his usual spot around another fire in another clearing off another road. After a few nights in a cheap bed rented from a tavern, he is not sure whether his body will be grateful for the relatively flat ground or long for the marginal softness of lumpy straw in a reasonably hole-free binding. He sets about taking off his boots and removing his socks for those he has tried to wash clean but cannot rid of stains and wear. He sighs and decides to let his feet air for a bit by the fire. 

That’s when he notices the sound of laughter. Somewhere beyond the glow of the fire, just into the shadows, he makes out the shapes of Rina and Zevran. From this angle, their shapes might as well be one big shape. 

Zevran is teaching her sneaky tactics for killing people. And darkspawn, he supposes, should they manage to sneak up on them rather than being raced upon by a horde. Alistair can see the strategic value in it, but his mind – unfairly – cooks up all the reasons assassin-ing is a sneaky, dishonest, duplicitous skill set to have. 

Rina elbows Zevran somewhere between his ribs and his stomach. It is hard to tell in the dark with them standing so close to each other. 

Zevran extends his arms out wide as he laughs in a manner to catch his breath. 

“Come now, that is not a very subtle tactic,” he scolds, _teasing_ her. 

“Becoming an assassin does not mean I have to forget every other skill I have learned,” she tells him. 

“Now, that is very true,” Zevran agrees. He strides around her so he stands before her, his movements as graceful as if he were dancing. His hand comes up so his fingertip drags along her jaw. 

Alistair thinks he might be miming slitting her throat, and if he is, she doesn’t take any offense to it. He supposes that is fair, after Zevran has proven time and time again that he seems to have no desire to fulfill the terms of his original contract while they are not paying attention. And if it’s not true, then Alistair realizes he really needs to take a walk. 

He stands up, as quietly as he knows how. He is not an Antivan assassin, after all, and it is not fair of him to feel at all betrayed. 

They can speak more freely now – Rina and himself – and he wants to keep it at that. He does not want every thought of her to be tinged with regret. And yet, he had promised not only her but _himself_ that he would take more care to look after himself. That means turning his back on the woman he loves – _had loved_ – falling under the charms of another man. Another man so different from himself that he cannot help the self-debasing process of comparison. 

He leaves behind his shoes and both pairs of socks, leaving a little caution to the wind. 

The ground is cool and soft but not muddy. The grass is a little lackluster and scratchy, but if not for that, he might even think it felt nice against his bare feet. 

He does not know where he is going. He can smell water nearby, and he hears a lot of gulping sounds that he decides are probably frogs. He does not fancy stepping on a frog with his bare foot, so his path deviates a bit from the waterside. 

He stretches a little, reaching toward the sky and the canopies of the trees that dot the landscape. He squints at the darkness to plot out a path a few paces in front of him and trusts himself to feel out the way for a bit as he lifts his chin, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. 

After an inadvisable amount of time, he levels his chin and opens his eyes. He feels a bit proud of himself that he has not stumbled straight into a tree. What he does notice, however, is that it would not have taken him too long to stumble down an embankment through some brambles and straight into a small, cultivated fire. 

He blinks at the fire’s glow, which is recognizable for its shape and scent but which he had not previously been particularly aware of. 

He wonders if it’s a bit like how flies and moths seem to be drawn inexorably toward their doom at night. 

With nowhere else to go but toward the only other campfire for quite some distance around, he takes a deep breath and picks as clear a path as he can to the edge of the embankment. 

He tries to clear his throat to announce his presence, but about the time he starts to do so, the side of his foot finds something sharp and pointy to snag itself on. It does not seem deep enough to draw blood, but it is nasty enough to send pain smarting through and making his eyes water. He also manages to strangle a bit on his own saliva from the failed attempt at making a more dignified noise to announce himself. 

In his effort to prevent further calamity from befalling him this night, his arm juts out and instinctively catches against a tree of middling size. It makes a rather pleasant sound of rustling its leaves together in response, and he manages to get hold of his balance. He looks up at the rustling leaves rather than directly down at the woman sitting by her fire, tending to something, seated in her personal, quite complex little campsite. 

“I heard no commotion which should require my attention,” Morrigan says, apparently to him since no one else is around. Unless it’s a demon, but as far as he knows she has never summoned demons. He can give her that much. 

“No,” he agrees. “… No, everything is quite alright.” 

“Then to what do I owe this interruption?” she asks. He notices that her yellow eyes have lifted to him now. As he meets them, the sensation is unnerving. It is almost as if he has stumbled into a predator’s den, and he is the prey. She looks like she belongs in and to the forest in a way that isn’t even insulting. He swallows and tries to think of an answer as his eyes dart around for anything to focus upon but those eyes. 

Alistair thinks about it for a moment. Does he have any reason to _interrupt_ Morrigan with whatever she does all the time, by herself? Apart from base curiosity about _how_ she manages to be so frightening and magical all the time. 

Then, it dawns on him. 

“Oh. Yes,” he says, more to himself than to her. “Did I… ever… apologize to you?” It is difficult, a bit shameful, to ask her, but it keeps her attention. 

“Whatever for, Alistair?” she asks, obviously enthralled by the prospect of amusement. 

“For that… mix-up… in Denerim. You know, when I thought you were a—”

“Alistair, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?” she asks. “Because I _know_ it is not to apologize for a days-gone transgression.” 

She doesn’t throw anything at him or zap him with nightmare spells. She lets her interruption speak for itself, so Alistair is back to scrambling for reasons not to turn and go back the way he came. 

“I was just… taking a walk?” he suggests. “Nothing wrong with walks. Good for the constitution.” 

Morrigan leans back against her arm and cranes her neck, looking across the clearing at some vantage point he cannot see from here. She squints her eyes, and he wonders if he sees a faint shimmer across their surface, not unlike light catching on the ripples of a pond disturbed by a stone. That’s unnerving, too. 

“Could it be that you found it too cold ‘round your own flame?” she asks as she turns her gaze back to him. She is still leaned back against a taut arm, her wrist holding her weight at full tension. 

It makes how little covers her chest and abdomen hard not to notice. Alistair looks back up at her face, mindful of himself, and he swears he sees her smirk. 

That draws a glare out of him, and he steps over the boundary of bushes keeping him from her camp as best he can. He stumbles a bit but manages not to jog into her fire. He stands there, realizing from the length of his shadow that he might be _looming_ a little, which is not his intention. He takes a few steps back away from the heat between them. 

“My, my. I seem to have struck something,” she says. She laughs. 

Alistair feels his heart racing, and for a moment he wishes he had loomed a little longer. He has absolutely no desire to _hurt_ her, but she is _laughing_ at him, and he doesn’t like it at all. 

“And what do you think you have stricken?” Alistair asks. He uses the calloused bottom of one of his feet to be sure that a certain patch of ground has nothing upon it that will render him more impotent than he already is. Then he sits down, across from Morrigan, a shy distance away from her fire. He could try leaning back against the embankment to recline, if he wished. He does not try it yet. 

Morrigan pushes herself upright from leaning back against her wrist. She dusts off her hand against some of her clothing and readjusts her knees, drawing them tighter together and closer to her body. She looks altogether more prim and a bit paler, presumably at his presumption to take a seat. That satisfies his wounded pride, at least a little. It is taking succor wherever it can be found at this point. 

“Well, since you ended your relationship with Rina—”

“I didn’t _end_ anything,” Alistair says crossly, feeling his stomach sink and any gain he had made toward reconstructed pride crumble to ash. 

Morrigan makes a sound that is not quite a full chuckle but which makes Alistair’s fingers twitch as anger starts to flare up from the heat of embarrassment. 

“Oh, I am sure you did not,” she says. 

“Morrigan—” he tries to warn, but no. He should be honest with himself and his Maker. He is _pleading_. 

She lifts her hand to cradle her jaw, heedless of his distress. Or heeding it and only wishing to gouge the wound deeper. 

“I understand that she ended things with you when she discovered that you were not only a silly human boy but rather an illegitimate, _royal_ silly boy. And she has since taken up with a _man_ of her own kind who—” 

In her hands, she seems to be carefully tending something between her fingers, eyes fixed upon it. Perhaps it is a charm or a poultice or something altogether worse, but Alistair’s head heats too much to see straight. She keeps at her work and continues talking and talking, as if she is speaking of nothing at all. 

“Shut up!” Alistair orders, noting how little authority actually seems to come through in his voice. He draws another breath and sets his gaze on Morrigan, hard and like he could run her through. Her words cut, and there is no _point_ to them except her petty amusement, and in the moment he cannot imagine that she actually feels anything at all. “Shut up,” he tries again. “Or I will run my sword through you.” 

“Oh, _I see_ ,” Morrigan replies, undeterred and continually patronizing. “Most serious then,” she says. Finally, she deigns to look up at him with a soft tut, as though she is admiring a child’s first efforts at speech. 

Alistair is deflated, then. He does not believe he fully meant the threat, but the dark, heavy feeling in his veins makes him wonder for a moment. His temples have an uncomfortable pressure thrumming in them, and he reaches up with both hands and rubs at them. He closes his eyes, trying to quiet the memory of sounds he hears when he sleeps. He takes in deep breaths in the most measured manner he can manage, cooling his insides and trying not to think of the cold, dark underground. 

“I see one problem with the would-be templar’s threat,” Morrigan says, and he wants to snap at her again, but this time he feels as if he has no right. He has afforded her a free swing at him, if nothing else. “He seems to be quite… _swordless_. At the moment, at least.” 

The twinge of _suggestion_ in her tone makes it even worse. He especially does not like it as he is trying to calm the strange racing of his heart. 

“Morrigan,” he says, more softly, appealing to their acquaintance and alliance, however tenuous it may be. He finally drops his right hand from his temple, still rubbing at the left. He moves to rise to his feet, to haul himself away. “Respite, for now, alright?” 

“Well, I could give you an answer as my mother would have given,” she says. 

Alistair is surprised enough that he turns back to look at her, deadly curious. He is tempted back, if only for a moment. 

“Your relationship with your fellow Grey Warden is not _ended_ , merely changed,” she says, affecting the aged voice of a dragon-in-old-lady’s-clothing. A dragon whom he had struck the finishing blow against, no less. He glances down at his right hand, puzzling at that and what it meant for Morrigan for the first time. It’s a soothing distraction, giving his pointless anger the memory of a battle to sink itself into. He blinks a few times, watching his sword-hand rest just above his knee, inert. 

“I like that, actually,” he remarks. It’s aimless, and it’s only after the fact that he considers whether Morrigan might take offense to the suggestion that he likes her dead mother’s imagined words over her own. He smirks a little at himself, or maybe just at his own feeling of haplessness. 

There is no sound, save for the crackling of the small fire. Alistair studies how small it is until his eyes complain from staring into it and he blinks and looks away. It is meant for only one person, and it does its job well enough for two. He is puzzled at how quiet Morrigan has become, so he glances across for her, half-expecting that she would have spirited away somewhere, aided by forbidden and unknowable magic, no less. 

She is still there, hugging her knees to her chest. She has a distant look in her eyes, and the fire reflects into them as she stares into it, apparently unbothered by it. If she is bothered by anything, it seems not to be anything close to the flames. 

“Why do you like it?” she asks, catching his gaze before he can look away. 

He is fixed by her gaze as an arrow might fix him to a tree. 

“Well, it’s just… I still care about her, you know?” he asks, wishing immediately that he had not ever posed a rhetorical question to Morrigan, even if they are making an attempt at civil conversation. 

Miraculously, she just keeps staring at him and says nothing. 

“And I think I always will, so… I prefer not to think of it as the _end_ of a relationship. It’s just… a different kind of relationship now,” he finishes. He feels like the fire is drying him out, even though it’s smaller than the one he was sitting around before. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, which he is sure will crack and bleed if he does not. “Do you do something magical to this fire? It’s quite warm,” he says, babbling as if he can erase his own vulnerability. 

“I suppose that’s… _true_ ,” Morrigan remarks after a moment. She blinks in a noticeable way. He thinks she might be thinking about what he has said, and that’s a scary thought that makes him take assessment of each of his limbs, as if he might need to run away suddenly. Finally, she stops looking at him, picking at something on a deep, tattered, purple cloth which seems to be a resting place for several tools and sachets of herbs, or something. He cannot make out what she is doing, if anything, through the haze of smoke and fire. 

“I suppose you would still have a _relationship_ of sorts, even if you were to become bitter enemies.” 

“That won’t—” Alistair starts to say, chuckle even. But he stops himself. He frowns as he watches her face, folding his arms across his chest. His instincts aren’t telling him to run, then. “Why do I get the feeling—?” She stops him before he can say, _“you’re not talking about Rina and me?”_

“But she has found solace with another man,” Morrigan says. 

It does not obey the rules of conversations as he understand them. The remark seems to come unbidden. Only, he has been known to abruptly shift the subject from time to time. It’s unfair to get upset with a woman, even an apostate, maleficar of a woman, for something he is guilty of himself. 

“‘Solace’?” he repeats with a frown, keeping his arms folded. He leans back a little, his shoulder blades finding the cool of the embankment behind him. Better to quibble over word choice than to think too deeply about such a deep cut upon the field of battle. 

“Comfort,” Morrigan explains in a maternal tone that would be more befitting of Wynne. It makes Alistair crinkle his nose. “Or is that not a word they covered in your Chantry? I would believe report of such neglect.” 

“And what comfort did you know out in the Korcari Wilds in a dragon lady’s hut?” 

Morrigan narrows her gaze at him this time, which lets him know that at least he is not completely unarmed in this conversation. 

“Very little, and that is why I learned to recognize it,” she explains. 

And then that just makes him feel bad when she obviously has no such reservations toward him. 

“Are you really her daughter?” Alistair asks. He does not know why he asks it. His mouth seems to do it without permission. 

Her expression suddenly reminds him of a displeased cat and he sighs, long and resigned to the fact that he will never learn to rein in his mouth. 

“You speak of blood when it matters little, but how would I know?” Morrigan asks. 

His mouth opens to answer her and manages to make a useless sound before she speaks over him to prevent its stupid issuance. 

“It is not as if I can _ask her_ now,” she adds, venomously. 

Alistair clears his throat, this time without strangling. 

“I’m sorry,” he says solemnly, which feels like a very strange bit of play-acting, given that he had slain the dragon at her bidding, however indirectly. Nevertheless, the apology seems to quell her anger. He tries to at least redirect her sorrow at him when she starts staring forlornly at the fire again. “I was just wondering if being the daughter of a _dragon_ came with any benefits. You know, big leathery wings? Breath that could slay a man at a thousand paces. Not, that is, to say that _your_ breath is _that_ bad. I think I would have noticed.” 

Morrigan scoffs impatiently. 

“I would not wish to put it to a contest with you.” 

“I take good care of myself,” Alistair whines, because it’s a nice distraction at last. “I clean my teeth, drink all the water I’m allowed, and bathe _almost_ every time it’s convenient.” 

“Valiant, truly,” Morrigan replies. She lapses into silence again, but at least she isn’t staring into the flame in a way that would surely deteriorate even magical eyeballs. 

“Do you have any remedies for worms?” Alistair asks, trying to rile her feminine sensibilities instead, assuming she has any of those. 

Morrigan does look disgusted for a moment and sighs, fussing with her purple cloth to fold it in on itself. 

“I think I have learned the difference between you and the dog,” she says tersely. 

“Ah! So we’re making progress. Bonding, if you will,” he says, tongue before brain once more. 

“I am still not certain he is not the smarter between you,” Morrigan says, but it is a worn insult, lacking any further sting. 

Alistair settles into leaning back against the bank. He exhales heavily, exhausted by the mere thought of returning to the main camp. His eyelids even start to lower themselves, blinking more often, and he thinks he could fall asleep until Morrigan opens her mouth again. It reminds him how foolish it would be to fall asleep so close to a witch, all on his own, but he wishes he had remained oblivious for a moment longer. 

“I chose the word ‘solace,’ for I do not believe she was indifferent to your… parting,” Morrigan says. 

Alistair groans rather an answering at first. He reaches up and claps his hand over his eyes and slowly lets it slide away. 

“What?” Morrigan asks, rhetorically. “You asked for clarification.” 

“Unwisely. Yes. That I did,” Alistair agrees, if only to haste the end of his humiliation. 

“And did I not grant that which you asked?” 

“I’ve read stories about demons that do that sort of thing. _‘I shall give you anything you ask in exchange for your soul.’_ ” He imitates a seductress to prove his point. 

“I’m not a demon,” Morrigan says. She again fidgets with the arrangement of her skirt around her knees. 

“I did not say you were,” Alistair grants with crisp movements of his tongue. Her squirming isn’t much fun when it feels like it has cut too deep or simply missed its intended mark altogether. 

He decides that since she is not a demon, he might as well close his eyes for a moment. 

“I believe she understood your intentions to be honourable. However, some differences in the path one wishes to tread draw one away from… the companion one had otherwise sought,” Morrigan says. 

“We _really_ don’t have to talk about this,” Alistair says, his voice pitching a bit high toward the end in his utter desperation to be heard. He pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs at it a little. 

“Well, I thought much of your discomfort came from the fact that you felt at fault for being parted from one who had known you so intimately—”

“ _Mor-ri-gan,_ ” Alistair enunciates sharply. His eyes are still closed behind his pinching fingers, but he notes a change in her tone as well. His face is hot, and he cannot blame the fire. He really wants to avoid the temptation to start shouting at her again, leveling idle but inappropriate threats. 

“I understand that your Chantry teaches that you ought to have been struck by lightning quite before now. I can arrange that for you, if it will make you feel better, but I believe that you might be better served by not taking a means of obtaining… power and offspring and pleasure quite so _seriously_.” 

Her words bore into his brain like a nail hammered with each syllable. He thinks it’s the most syllables she has ever freely prattled off before. To him, at least. 

The words make him feel a little ill. 

“I have joined the ranks of the prematurely defiled,” he says, dramatically, throwing himself into it as if that might satisfy her thirst for getting something over on him. “But I take it Rina did not see it that way, and I must respect that her decision and differences of opinion are independent of my shame at behaving so… rashly.” His tongue clicks softly as he finishes saying it. Saying it out loud seems to allow him to exhale a little more completely. He does so, sinking back against the cool ground. He tilts his chin up to look toward the sky, watching smoke and sparks fly up. He folds his fingers together across his chest. 

“I do not believe that I heard _many_ indications of your dereliction of duty,” Morrigan says, and she’s being coy. Alistair feels his shoulders draw up toward his ears in self defense, but he lifts his head to look at her, waiting for the moment when he can plead with her – politely – to _shut up_. “Perhaps a suggestion from your amorous competition, but I believe he is _quite_ free with his sexual advice. And… you know, jealousy runs both ways.” 

“Morrigan?” Alistair asks, smiling at her quite warmly. He watches suspicion grow on her face. She even gathers up her things and finally goes to place them in her larger pack. 

“Yes, Alistair?” she asks, obviously feigning nonchalance. “I simply thought you might wish to know that I believe Rina values your continued friendship and _quite_ valued your time together.” 

Alistair’s face goes slack, ruining his delivery a little, but he cannot help the question that follows. 

“Do you just… run about camp, every night, as a cat or a snake or something and listen to everyone’s business?” 

“No, Alistair. I do not. It is only that women talk as men do.” She flashes him a smile that seems to mock the one he had lost before she unties her hair and reveals more length of it than he’d thought she had. She starts to comb it. 

Alistair blinks a few times. Then he looks away as if what she is doing is something he is not quite meant to see. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He glances back at her more shyly. 

“Now,” he says, “I would very much appreciate if you would stop talking about this. Else I will throw my boot at you.” 

His lips quirk on their own as he looks down at his folded hands, appreciating his own mockery of his more rash threat from before. 

“Ah, but there is a problem with that, too. You also seem to be without shoes.” 

“And you haven’t complained.” 

“You haven’t been terribly close to me, and the Wilder men my mother brought ‘round to sap and slay were not particularly well-known for their pleasant aroma. Well, unless Mother marinated them before the real festivities began.” 

“Are you suggesting your mother ate people?” 

“Oh, I would suggest my mother would have done that and much more.” 

“Well, seeing as she turned out to be a dragon, I suppose that’s almost justifiable.” 

“If you would no longer like to have your manhood reaffirmed, then why is it that you are here?” Morrigan asks bluntly. He glances briefly again to see that she seems to be preparing herself for sleep. 

“That is _not_ why I came over here,” Alistair says. “I didn’t even mean to come over here. I meant to get away from _there_ and your fire just happened to be warm and inviting.” 

“What a flatterer you are,” Morrigan says. 

Alistair’s brow furrows as he tries to understand why she would say a thing like that. He takes the opportunity to push it aside and start staring up at smoke and sparks again. 

“Morrigan…” he says, “look, I just… really, really need a break.” 

“Oh, really? And what would you like me to break for you?” she asks. 

Alistair chuckles deeply enough that it strangles him just a bit. He coughs through laughter and his hands unfold for one of them to press at his stomach. He gasps for a steady breath and manages to stop spluttering. 

“Whatever is left of my pride, I suppose. But I believe you know what I meant.” 

He can hear Morrigan moving around over in her tent that does not quite resemble any tent he has otherwise seen. He thinks he hears her take a seat upon her bedding, because the rustling abruptly stops. 

“I do,” she assures him at last. There is another long pause. Her voice seems more distant when she speaks again. He looks over and sees that she is lying on her side, back to him. It strikes him as a surprising show of trust. “You may sleep here for the night if you wish,” she adds. 

Alistair lifts his eyebrows for an audience of no one. 

“I do not have much to offer you in the way of additional hospitality, but if you can rest here, it will not trouble me.” 

Alistair clears his throat and shifts around a bit, trying to find the most comfortable way to recline against the embankment and look up, trying to make out stars past the smoke and leaves. 

“Thank you,” he says. It is a polite, uncomplicated response to something that is unexpectedly and simply kind. 

“And if you try to touch me, I do not promise that you will escape with either your genitals or your head,” Morrigan says. 

The comment almost puts him at ease. If any other person had said such a thing to him, he thinks he would have still had the decency to be flustered. With Morrigan, however, it seems to be an acknowledgment of something otherwise lost to him. 

He yawns audibly and snorts softly with laughter. He doesn’t look toward her or her lean, mostly-bare back. She has half-covered it with a fur anyway. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. 

He does glance then, to see if he has captured any reaction from her. Rather than looking at him, she seems to curl in on herself a bit more. He thinks it is curious, but he closes his eyes. He enjoys the crackle of the fire, the lack of talking, and the space away from his regrets and weaknesses. The fact that all of this is granted to him by the least likely person he would have ever imagined is not lost on him, but he is too exhausted to ponder it very deeply before he falls asleep.


	7. Lies of Omission

They have journeyed across Ferelden and back several times, seeing more of the world of man than Morrigan had ever hoped to see again. In fact, there had been a time when she had hoped she would _not_ see half as much ever again. 

She finds that she does not mind traveling with Rina and her strange band of bizarrely loyal companions. She still prefers to keep to herself in the evenings, most of the time, but the thought that Ferelden is now united against the Blight with Alistair to be its king at its end makes her feel a little pensive. Many of the people she has come to know have not been at all what she had expected and not all of them for the worse. 

The Landsmeet over, Morrigan wonders if Alistair will be even more unbearable than usual. She has tried time and again to remind him that even mad and foolish kings have ruled to their dooms or into old age. She is still not certain that her warning has taken hold when he approaches her with a slight spring in his step. He is far from as gloomy as the last time they had been in Denerim. 

“Morrigan!” he calls in a way that makes her lift her shoulders up toward her ears, as if everyone in the estate might hear him call to her. She had simply had interest in going down to the kitchens to either ask or simply demand something to eat. She sighs as she lowers her shoulders back down to their rightful place. 

“Haven’t you kingly affairs to get in order?” she asks, pausing in the courtyard. 

“I’m not king yet,” he says, too unguarded for her tastes. 

“You deign to admit it.” She takes a few steps toward him so that she might speak more discreetly. “You do know that even with the Landsmeet won in your favour, there may yet be those who would like to see your fate be the same as Loghain’s?” 

As she comes closer, she notices that Alistair is rubbing something apart from the rune stone she had always known him to keep close at hand. It is larger, taking up more of his hand. It is also made of darker variety of stone, very nearly black. She tilts her head at it, curious. 

“Am I to understand that you’re worried about me?” he asks. She is distracted by puzzling out what he is working his thumb against, even as he struts a little. 

“Should I not—” she starts to scoff at him, but then she looks up to meet his eyes. She feels heat rush through her, and she refuses to let it form into embarrassment. Her own hands clutch into loose, empty fists. “Only that everything we have traipsed across this sodden country time and again for will fall to pieces because you haven’t the slightest bit of a head for politics.” 

Alistair’s face shines just a bit less brightly. It’s bearable, then. He frowns, but he is at the very least willing to push back a little. She does not know whether it’s a good thing, in principle, when he is pushing back at her, though. 

“And you do?” he balks at her. She still sees the undercurrent of a smirk. “I’m sure you developed quite the knack for it, out in the forest, out in the swamps. Your subjects were frogs and bears and spiders. Should I appoint you queen? Queen Morrigan, going to lead us all out of foolishness.” 

Somehow he has come closer to her, or she has come closer to him. She is not sure which. He seems to be ready to dance around her. She looks up into his eyes, and there is something solid and foreign in her chest. It catches her breath when she tries to draw it completely. There is a snare about their feet, and she has left it there, never saying one word. His words almost suggest that he has intuited it, but she can tell there is innocence yet in his eyes. She makes herself look away first. 

“You have decided to be rid of the daughter, then?” she asks. 

Alistair looks confused for a moment. Then it dawns on him. His eyes widen, gaze catching above her head. He shakes his head when he looks back down at her. 

“No. I chose not to leave Ferelden with no one in line for the throne. She is _not_ her father, and while I do not trust her after all that _‘oh, save me,’_ and traitorous show at the Landsmeet, I believe her ambition is… honest. I… think I know what I’m doing, deciding to go through with _claiming my birthright_ , but she clearly wants the job more than I ever did. More than I do. And that’s why I think I might do a better job of it, if I live, but if I don’t… at least her father does not get to spit upon my unmarked grave.” 

Morrigan has lost her focus on his eyes by the time she realizes he has stopped speaking. This time, it is not because she has lost interest. In fact, it is one of the more intelligent things she has ever heard him say. It surprises her. It gives her hope that he may not be a _complete_ idiot, after all. Only, there is one word in all of his that stands out to her. 

_‘Traitorous.’_

He clearly understands its meaning, and to him it means a lot. In her life, the notion of betrayal has come to be a means of survival. It is the way of nature. Sated animals rest side by side, predator and prey taking little notice of one another. Rabbits drink from the same water as foxes, and yet rabbits persist. Yet, when an animal is hungry, it turns to lunge for that which it needs to survive. 

Few creatures mourn their dead, their _consumed_ , but even the animals that have sense enough to do so do not look upon the fox, upon the wolf, upon the bear, as _traitor_. Their passive peace by the watering hole is temporary, and foxes who frolic with rabbits in their youths mean them no malice at all. There is no understanding of _trust_ between their kinds, and thus there can be no betrayal. 

The same cannot be said for people. This, perhaps more than anything, perplexes Morrigan about the world of men. And yet she is part of it. There is little use denying it now, after these months becoming more and more accustomed to its bustle and chatter. It is in her blood. She understands now that if she is to choose to save their lives and to take the only just price for doing so, she will be deemed _traitor_ , too. 

She will hurt them, and foolish, trusting Alistair most of all. 

“Morrigan?” he asks. She realizes her eyes have been darting about, passively observing the world around her as her mind was drawn further in, lost in thought. Her gaze focuses on the thing that Alistair is now tossing about to the level of his head and catching down near his waist. The black thing he had been holding in his hand. It is a small statue, a bit grotesque in its features, actually. The likeness of a demon. “Have I lost you? I know too much civilization tends to wear you down,” he teases, but it isn’t biting enough to draw her ire. 

Not when she is thinking about what she is and the choice she must make. She tries to chase her thoughts on the matter to the back of her mind. 

“Is that a carving of a demon?” she asks, her interest not entirely feigned. 

Alistair stops tossing the thing and holds it still between his fingers. He looks at it with a soft, pleased smile that puzzles her. 

“Lost your religion, have you?” she asks. 

“No! I...” Alistair says, but he catches himself. He glares at her as he fights a more amused tug at his lips. “No. It was a gift from Rina.” 

Morrigan’s mouth presses into a skeptical line. 

“She is back to giving you gifts, is she?” 

“She is my _friend_ ,” he says. “A very good friend. I would not… be alive were it not for her. Anyway, I’ve got a few others. I hope it’s not a bad omen – a little demon statue as a kingship present. But I don’t think it is. It’s an enemy for the Grey Warden and his horse to strike down.” 

Morrigan recalls seeing him amusing himself by making a puppet talk to things held in his other hand. She lifts her eyebrows as concerned understanding dawns on her. He can go from sounding almost prepared for what lies ahead of him to discussing plays performed with dolls. 

“I see,” she says, managing not to comment any further. She draws a deep breath and glances over her shoulder toward the kitchen door in the courtyard before looking back at Alistair. 

He looks poised to say something else, his face fallen as if her lack of interest has convicted him somehow. She speaks before he can. 

“Alistair, there is something I must say to you,” she says. His eyes go quite wide, and he looks both frightened and, after an instant, eager. 

“Al-Alright,” he agrees with a nod. 

“Our time together is nearly over,” she explains. 

“Time… to-ge—” Alistair begins to echo, but Morrigan speaks over him, before he can turn this into a further conversation. 

“I do not know quite how long, but… you will face the archdemon, and then… this time in your life will be over.” 

She does not know quite why she addresses it only to him. It is not only this time in _his_ life but all their lives which will be over. And yet, she imagines him sitting upon the throne – a sight she will never behold – lost for lack of the truth. 

“Yes… and?” he asks. “You’re being quite ominous, you know.” 

Morrigan rolls her eyes at him. She realizes that any effort to soften the blow by making herself more vulnerable before the end will do no good and resolves in that moment not to bother. She scoffs and turns away, headed for the kitchen door. 

“Wait. You’re mean you’re… leaving?” 

“Why yes, it would seem so.” 

“No, I mean… you’re _leaving_ after the Blight is ended. Where will you go? Back home?” 

“My mother is dead, and I have no need of that home anymore. You may look there, but you will not find me.” 

Alistair sighs. Morrigan touches the door handle and lingers for a moment, watching him, giving him a moment to speak. He studies her, and then she sees some resignation in his eyes, or perhaps it is denial. 

“Like I said. Ominous,” he says after a moment. Then he moves to follow her. 

She frowns. 

“What are you doing?” she asks. 

“Going wherever you’re going. That’s the kitchen, right?” 

“Why?” 

“The same reason you are.” 

“And what reason do you presume that to be?” 

“To… ask the kitchen ladies _very_ nicely if we’re allowed to have anything before dinner.” 

Morrigan sighs and cracks open the door, already prepared to deal with the shrews inside insisting that even their pantries cannot be bothered until mealtime. 

“You’re to be king. Can’t you just order them to serve you?” 

“That’s not the sort of tyrant I wish to be,” he says with a tutting click of his tongue. They step through the doorway to the scent of a rich stew cooking and the sound of the head cook complaining before she lays eyes on them. Alistair speaks softly, not far above her ear. “Oh, maybe they have some cheese.”


	8. Through Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason the fic is rated Explicit.

Alistair will not look at her as she leads him into the bedchamber provided for her. She had prepared it just as Flemeth had told her – when Flemeth was still alive – a year before. The candle that burns beside the bed is not an ordinary candle, if her mother had been telling the truth. 

Morrigan believes that particular thing, because the candle fat has a strange smell to it, but it is masked by something that tickles her nose like pepper. 

“What is that smell?” Alistair complains, upon entering the room. She closes the door behind them. She locks it, too. 

“Surely you do not find it so unpleasant as half the things we encountered outside castle walls,” she says to him. 

Alistair sighs and groans softly again. He stares at the bed like he has never encountered one before. He glances over at her furtively, but he refuses to look at her eyes for long. 

“So… what do you need me to do?” he asks. 

“I… do understand you have done this at least once before, have you not?” 

“I’m… I _really_ don’t want to think about that right now,” he tells her, his sullen resignation cracking slightly into more desperate honesty. 

Morrigan relents as she walks around the back of him. 

“The magic is contained within the candle. It only needed my invoking it. I have burned it within this room for the intended time, and I have warded the room appropriately. I shall blow out the candle, and we shall… come together in _blessed_ darkness,” Morrigan explains. 

“Blessed indeed,” Alistair grumbles. Apparently even her efforts at sarcasm cannot completely break his sour mood. 

Morrigan sighs. 

“All you need do is take off your clothes.” 

“Can I at least keep my… you know… _covered_ until you have to…?” Alistair asks. He glances at her, then turns his back and starts work on getting his clothes off without getting an answer. 

“You may, if you prefer, but I have seen one before.” 

“That’s not exactly comforting,” he says. 

Morrigan starts to remove her own clothes down to the barest of coverings, far less tense about it than Alistair clearly is. She glances over and sees it written in the taut muscles of his back. She feels her mouth fill a bit more with saliva, unbidden. She swallows as she stands there, her own disrobing finished. She folds her arms, pointlessly, as she relegates herself to a corner and waits for him. 

“What… _would_ be comforting?” she ventures. If he does not grow more at ease with this, she is not entirely sure he will be _able_ to fulfill the terms of the agreement, and the thought is one she does not wish to entertain. If she stops and thinks about it, she believes she might change her mind, and if she does, then this year of trekking across Ferelden and experiencing pain and frustration and gross inconvenience will have been for nothing. She has nothing to return to, and she does not know what she will be going forward, but this gives her _something_. And not having it means that she will be abandoning either Alistair or Rina to their deaths. 

She would prefer not to do that. 

Alistair sighs, his shoulders relaxing if only to slump a bit. He folds his shirt and then takes off his trousers. He folds them with his back to her, too. 

“I’m not sure there’s anything you _can_ do,” he says. 

“And why not?” Morrigan demands. 

“Because I don’t—” Alistair starts, his voice raising just a bit. He rounds on her, wearing only one small garment to cover himself. His eyes fall on her, clothed in little more. 

She smirks with some small pleasure that she stops him talking. 

“Because I don’t… love… you,” Alistair tries again, miserably. 

Morrigan stares at him. At first, there is no expression on her face. Her brow creases as she feels a little twinge of embarrassment as if she had been insulted. Then she realizes, as he looks at her apologetically, wincing, that he had not meant it as one. 

It is convenient, then – better, in fact – that he has no delusions that this is a marital rite or some declaration of devotion. If she can simply persuade him to cooperate with her, she will be gone with what she wants, and he will live. That is enough. 

She draws on lessons Flemeth had taught her and lessons she had learned on her own. She smiles a bit and crosses the room, placing her hand on his arm, just above his elbow. 

“You needn’t _love_ me, Alistair. I… understand that you were taught some very strange things about this, but your Maker has not sent for you, yet.” 

She feels his arm tense at her touch, so she tries massaging her thumb back and forth, pressing in lightly, trying to grant him some release. 

“Take some comfort in knowing this is not your first experience with this, and you _did_ love the woman you were with as you wished at the time,” she suggests. 

He looks away along his shoulder, but she feels his arm hang a bit more naturally at his side, softening in her hand. He sighs, his gaze distant. 

“I… suppose you’re right,” he agrees. 

“See?” Morrigan prompts. 

“Don’t push it,” Alistair grumbles as he looks down to meet her eyes. 

“Alright. Fine,” he says, but his resignation is somewhat less bitter. He tugs his arm away and takes a step back. He claps his hands once and rubs them together as if he means to warm them. He eyes a side of the bed and approaches it. He turns and all but falls against it. 

Morrigan first watches in disbelief, but she cannot help but laugh at him, quite freely, for a moment. She draws a deep breath and touches her stomach above her navel, trying to regain control of herself. 

As she watches, he squirms a bit, wriggling up until he is aligned with the head of the bed. He is leaned back against his elbows, watching her. She feels and sees his eyes taking in her body. It is _more_ than before, but she knows it is not the first time. 

She glances at his groin, noting that she does not believe she is entirely uninspiring to him. She trails her gaze up his body until she meets his eyes. He is not displeasing himself, at least. 

“Alright. Show me how I’m ‘not going to hate this,’” Alistair prompts her, starting to smile tentatively. She isn’t quite sure she believes such a smile, but she believes the effort. 

“My, how you change your tune,” Morrigan says. She stands by the door, leaning slightly against it. She is allowing him to wait and to look. 

“This is me pretending I go around bedding women just because they’re pretty,” he explains. His face paints itself a bit redder, all the way down his neck a bit at the admission, but to his credit, he doesn’t look away. 

Morrigan rolls her eyes, but she keeps the smirk on her face. 

Satisfied that he is calm enough to allow her to _try_ , at least, she approaches the bed slowly. She crawls up from the bottom, parting her knees to accommodate for his legs. He stares at her, his brave smile going more slack as he looks at her. 

He looks almost frightened, just before she blows out the candle. 

“Now you needn’t worry about whether or not I am ‘pretty,’” she says to him. She smells smoke faintly, and then she smells Alistair. She had not ever particularly considered what he smelled of before. Wood smoke, different from the candle, dried tea leaves, and the light, fresh sheen of his own sweat. 

“You know you are, you… wicked woman,” Alistair says to her. He squirms beneath her as she sits upon his thighs. He makes a muffled noise, and she thinks she hears a restrained swear. “Some… _warning_ , please,” is the next articulate thing he says. 

“I thought you wanted to get it over with.” 

“I do. Just...” 

“You needn’t fear touching me as you wish. I will not take offense,” Morrigan informs him. Then, to prove her point, she feels in the utter darkness to find his shoulder. She glides her hand over it, up along his neck, to hold him by his jaw. She brushes her thumb to find his lips, and when it parts them, he audibly whines again. 

Following every sense but sight, she tilts her head and manages to catch his mouth to kiss him. 

“Wait,” he says against her lips. 

“You would prefer I did not?” she asks. 

“Yes. Well. I… I don’t know. Isn’t it just… unnecessary?” he asks. 

“It is unnecessary, but I believe it may help put you at ease,” Morrigan says, her tone low enough to account for how close they are. 

“Why?” he counters. “I mean… alright.” 

He sounds a bit pitifully defeated. Morrigan hesitates, but then he reaches up and feels around until his hand rests, however passively, against her side. She gasps a little at the sudden touch to her ribs. 

“Fine, kiss me. If you want,” he says, and so she does. 

She finds that he does know how to kiss back after he has been coaxed enough. She feels his stubble scrape just inside her lower lip when he moves to do so, and that more than her own efforts starts to stir the hunger within her. She shifts her hips forward, rolling them down against his as she grinds herself against him, two layers of thin cloth the only barrier between. 

She anticipates it when he drags his mouth away from hers again. At first he simply breathes, heavily. His hand slides down to her hip, draping to conform to the curve of it. She gladly lets him feel the rolling, slow, steady movement of her hips. Her own breath quickens along with the drum of her heart in her chest.

“Nnn—wait,” Alistair pleads again. His hand grips her hip more firmly, and it makes Morrigan all the more reluctant to comply. She sighs and does as he asks, stilling her movement against him. 

“Yes, Alistair?” she asks, not hiding her impatience. 

“Don’t you… Oh, you always make me _humiliate_ myself,” he complains, his grip on her hip almost digging in as he speaks. She is fairly certain he is unaware of it, but she purposefully feels until the tip of her nose brushes against his neck. She breathes in, then kisses the flesh lightly, urging him along. He makes a sound as if he had touched ice or else burnt himself. “… but _don’t_ you need… me… you know… to… inside of you?” he asks. 

She sincerely hopes it’s a rhetorical question. She lifts her head to look in the direction of the warmth of his breath, though she cannot see a thing. 

“What of it?” she asks, giving him the benefit of the doubt. 

“I… don’t want to… waste your time. So are you… you know…?” 

“I am certain that I want the child that will result, yes. Everything I have told you about this, this night, is true,” she recites quickly, hoping not to lose her own _interest_ as well. 

“No. No, I meant… I don’t want to hurt you, so are you… er… _prepared_?” he asks. She thinks she can feel him wincing. 

Morrigan groans softly, this time not from desire. She restrains herself, avoiding saying anything cruel. Instead, she tries to feel pity. Then, the solution to the terrible pause occurs to her. She grins, as genuinely as she had groaned at him. 

“You can feel for yourself,” she prompts. 

There is no sound but their breathing for a moment. He takes a deep gulp of air, and a moment later, his other hand finds her other hip. Orienting itself, his fingers slip beneath the cloth that covers her. She rises very slightly upon her knees to allow his fingers free reign. 

He is gentle, and his fingers are pleasantly calloused. He coaxes the folds of her body apart, rather than pressing straight inside. He uses one fingertip, beckoning politely. 

Morrigan grants him another more helpless soft groan. She wishes he had not taken it from her quite so easily, but he does not do a thing she senses as gloating. She can only imagine the look on his face. 

His finger finally presses inside her. He slowly presses the length of it inside. She is more than wet enough to allow him this without any resistance. 

“Maker,” he murmurs to himself, and she smiles at the effect, however silly she finds it. He withdraws the finger, then tries two. It seems to be ritualistic on its own, but she does not complain. Instead, she leans toward him once more and nuzzles until she finds his jaw once more. There, she kisses, open-mouthed and hungry. When she suckles softly against his jaw and against his neck, she tastes salt on his skin. 

Alistair removes his hand from her, only to work quickly and wordlessly to rid both of them of the remainder of their clothes. 

Morrigan easily slides the covering from her breasts and squirms free of the rest. Then she settles back over him, the heat of her body a hair’s breadth from his. 

“Would you like me to…?” she asks, trusting him to know the rest. She does not want to ruin him with how she might describe it. 

“Please,” he pleads, hoarsely. She can feel him nod. 

She reaches down and feels his length. She hums appreciatively at the soft skin over the rigid warmth, the weight pleasant in her hand. She slides her hand so she steadies it only at the base. Then she squirms to lightly coat the head with the fluid that flows quite freely from her now. 

Lowering her hips, she gasps only when he is enveloped just inside. Then she slides over him completely, and for a moment she is utterly still. 

Alistair’s hand fumbles for her, and he rests it gently against her hip. Then he grips very slowly and politely. 

“Please,” he repeats in that same tone. “You… may. If you will...” 

Morrigan begins to roll her hips again, sighing with relief at how much more complete the sensation is. Her muscles ache but in a most wondrous way, and she closes her eyes to the dark and feeling. 

She cries out with surprise when Alistair’s tentatively wandering hands find more desperate purchase before it is through. He grips her arms beneath the shoulders – to steady her – before he rolls them over on the bed. 

“My,” she marvels at him. “Hungry now, are you?” 

“Is… this… are _you_ okay?” he asks. 

“I am completely fine and quite pleased,” Morrigan promises as she relaxes a bit beneath him. 

He works to find a rhythm once more, and he says nothing as he tucks his face against her shoulder and neck. She thinks he might be hiding himself, but he seems shameless in how urgently he grinds his hips into hers. Morrigan feels her eyes lose focus in the dark. She closes them and they flutter back open, seeking some sense of grounding. Finding none, she floats on the feeling – breath, touch, scent, and sound deliciously blanketing her until she loses all sense of searching for anything. 

When he finally spills into her, flooding her with an unfamiliar warmth beyond that which has built in her already, Morrigan breathes out, her hand still lightly clinging to Alistair’s arm. 

She feels him quiver as he holds himself over her. He pants against her skin, forehead even more pressed against her shoulder. 

She waits for a moment, then reaches up to lightly push at his shoulder. He seems to understand and rolls off her slowly, onto his back. Morrigan feels cooler air touch her skin, relief and disappointment at once. She takes in having her own space once more – such a thing even existing – before she glances toward the sound of his breathing. She squirms until she can just barely feel some of his skin touching hers, lying beside him. 

She doesn’t want him to panic, or neither of them will get any sleep. 

“Can I… sleep?” he asks, blearily, after a moment, just as she had thought and perhaps hoped. 

“If you do not wish to scurry back to your chambers so no one might know what you have done,” she says in a cloying voice, mocking false decency. 

“You don’t actually think I should—”

“If you did, I think I would hold you in contempt.” 

“That’s nice,” Alistair says. He goes quiet so long she thinks he is beginning to drift off. “That you don’t already, at the moment,” he says eventually, wits still mostly about him. 

Morrigan grants him a small laugh. 

She remains very still for a while with a thought to give magic and nature the opportunity to attune to each other. After what seems like long enough, she rolls onto her side, facing away from him without increasing the distance. She leans down to tug the blanket upward, making sure to spread it out enough to allow him to take some of it if he wants. She drapes it over the lower half of her body and feels him shift to do something like the same. 

She is nearly asleep when he speaks again, startling her enough that she grimaces. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

“It’s a bit late for me to consider retracting my offer now,” she says. “Go to sleep.” 

“That’s… not what I meant,” Alistair says. She can hear the pause in his speech, just the way she can hear him breathing. “I meant: do you really have to… go… afterward? Do you really want to?” 

Morrigan is silent. She does not need any special power to be privy to his thoughts. As she lies there, feeling his breath rise and fall, somewhat off rhythm with her own, she knows that he has begun to imagine what it might be like to do this again. Worse, he is imagining what it might be like for it to matter to him. 

“Yes,” she says curtly. She doesn’t move away from him, though. She can delay her departure, by moments, but she will not reconsider. She has no desire to cast him aside right now, when she knows he has done her no wrong, but to linger any moment longer than she is needed? It would be unkind. 

Alistair is the sort of man who would like to _love her_ , if she would allow it. 

At least, he thinks he is right now. 

And that is all the more reason that she must run from them, as soon as this battle is won, if she has ever been any friend to any of them at all.


	9. Through Great Loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note content warnings at the bottom of Chapter 1 if you wish to be warned for the content of this chapter.

Morrigan has never known pain like this. While she has never made a grand show of healing magic, for herself or anyone else, she realizes she has never known pain that she could not _escape_. She could heal herself. She could run away. She could find plants which would soothe her, even without the aid of magic. 

The last thought might grant her some relief, but she does not _know_ the plants here. 

Where she is, it is dark. Rich, fertile soil grows a carpet of lichen. Trees extend their fingers in a protective canopy above her. She hears chirping sounds of life around her, some of them urgent, but she does not know the creatures by name. 

She had known the pain was coming. She had counted the months. She had found a way to be far away from Flemeth, well beyond her reach, when this moment came. 

And yet, the only way out of it is to go through it. She paces for as long as she can. She is certain that she has a knife, that she is near clean water, and that she has a mass of extra rags and blankets for herself and her newborn child to fall asleep within. 

Eventually, she can stand no more, and she cries out on her own. 

There is no one there to soothe her. There is no one there to hold her hand. There is no one there for her to scream at and gnash her teeth for ever believing her mother about anything and for ever caring enough to do put herself through all of this anyway. 

She knows it could have been different. 

The baby is born a boy. It looks no different from any other human child. She has not seen very many, but when she has cut him free and listened to him scream and cry for a few moments, she lies back and catches her breath. She draws upon her mana, and in moments she is far better than any mother who is not a mage would ever be, so soon after giving birth. 

She is weary, but she takes up the child and washes him clean. He cries, all the while, but she eventually coaxes him into sleep and silence by holding him carefully in her arms. 

  


* * *

  


Cold rain pelts against the window as Alistair rubs at his forehead. He stares down at the maps and letters spread before him, letting out a great sigh. He reaches his hands around and rubs the back of his neck to soothe himself. 

As he stretches and his body gives way to a yawn, he wonders – had he followed the advice that he might _marry_ Anora, rather than seeing to it that she be released into a well-guarded, quiet life after the Blight – if she might have rubbed his neck for him. 

He laughs at himself. 

More likely, he would have been rubbing _her_ neck while _she_ dealt with matters of state. 

It’s a strange thought about a woman who is little more than an image in his mind now. He had never known her, only what she had represented. With the time that has passed, he realizes that the same had been true about him, in her eyes. 

It had been _nothing personal_. 

His mind goes blissfully blank for a moment as he closes his eyes and leans his chair back on two legs. Then it is awash with phantom images of all the other things in his life that have not been personal at all. 

He looks longingly toward his bed. It is empty and cool to the touch, but at least there is the comfort of his own body warming the blankets after an hour or so. He blows out the candle on his desk and goes to ready himself to sleep.


	10. Another World

There is warmth, but it does not come from the harsh rays of a sun. The light is pink at this time of day, this time of year. 

Morrigan marks time primarily through how much her son grows. 

Water trickles across stones. It is much the same here, else she would not have chosen this place to bring Kieran up. 

He is steadier on his feet now, and he is becoming quite conversational with her continued efforts. 

She recalls the brief moments when she had seen women with their babies back in Thedas. Some of them had spoken to their children in the most maddening, incomprehensible babble. She had hated it. 

She has only ever spoken to her child in proper words. Sentences took a while, but she did not sabotage or ignore the necessity of teaching him to express himself as though he were a dog. 

There are no dogs here, but there are creatures that howl in song. 

Kieran is toddling by the edge of the brook, bending down to capture a shiny, smooth stone in his hand. He struggles to pick it up. He drops it once. She smiles softly from where she sits upon the bank. She leans back against the heels of her hands, making no move to help him. Instead, she watches as he grows stronger without her interference. When he drops the stone he desires, he bends to try again. 

She hears a rustling in a plant with deep blue leaves. She glances to make sure there isn’t any danger, but she does not rise. This is a safe place. 

She has studied the creatures here, but she has never learned to copy their souls, their movements. She has never learned to _become_ them. 

Kieran holds something in his hand, grasped so tightly she thinks it might slip right out and back into the water. He turns himself carefully, his bare feet finding their place on the ground without falling. His knees move his little body in uncertain circles, but he manages a step forward, back toward her. After the first step, he bounds toward her and makes it to stand between her knees before he squats down. 

She reaches out for his waist and sets him down atop one of her thighs. He is getting heavy enough now that she will need to shift him after a while for her own comfort’s sake. He squirms until he is comfortably seated. 

He holds out his palm. In it, he holds a stone which is almost perfectly round and polished flat on both sides. He brushes his little thumb against it, back and forth, intoxicated by the movement. She looks at his face and lifts a hand to brush his dark hair away from his eyes, smoothing it against his forehead. She does _not_ dwell on what or whom that agile fidgeting of his thumb reminds her of. 

“White,” Kieran announces. 

Morrigan smiles, so freely that her teeth are bare to see. 

“Yes, my dear. That one is _white_ ,” she agrees. 

She has never learned to change shape into anything in this place. She recalls the shapes of the world from which she came, and she admires the beauty and peace between the shapes that move beyond them here. She has never felt the need to bound out after shadows here. 

Here, she has never been alone. 

Kieran tilts his head and leans it against her shoulder. He is warm and his cheek is a bit thick and soft. 

She is a shapechanger, but she has never wanted to become any creature she has beheld here. She does not want to leave Kieran on his own. While she knows he contains a soul more ancient than anything she has known, she studies him without fear. He has shaped her, but she will never become like him, and he will never become like her. And that is fine. That is what she wants. His soul – whatever it may be – is his own, but she will never stop trying to learn the shape of it.


	11. Courtly Manners

Kieran has grown into a smart and curious boy by the time Morrigan brings him back to Thedas. The Court of Orlais is like nothing he has ever seen. 

Of course, that is only in this life, this form he knows now. Morrigan glances down at him, watching his eyes taking it all in. 

He reaches up and grips at the side of her skirt. 

“Mother, there are so many _people_ ,” he says. 

“I know,” she agrees. “Dreadful, isn’t it?” she asks before she can think better of poisoning his mind with too much of her true self. 

She draws in a breath, trying to think of a way to correct herself, before she notices that he is unbothered. He looks up to meet her eyes. 

“May I speak to them? Ask them questions?” 

“You will have plenty of opportunity to ask questions. You shall have not only me but a tutor now.” 

“What’s a tutor?” he asks. 

“You shall see,” she says with a mysterious smile. 

“Mother,” Kieran complains mildly. 

“A tutor is someone who will help you with your studies.” 

“Studies? That sounds exciting.” 

Morrigan reaches down and musses Kieran’s hair before straightening it out again. 

“My, my, how I hope you continue to be of that opinion.” 

  


* * *

  


Alistair receives a letter from Skyhold sometime after he has sent his letter of gratitude to the Inquisition. He notices that the seal is of a different colour than he recalls, and the stamp is something he does not quite recognize, either. 

He wonders whether he should have caution in opening such a letter, but after his hands have been on the thing, he decides that there is little he can do if it is some trap to poison him after all. 

He breaks the seal. When he begins reading, he rises to his feet, but by the time he is finished, he has crossed his room and sat down – breath taken – on the edge of his bed. 

_Alistair,_

_It is against my better judgment to contact you, even in this way. I do not wish to trouble you, and I do not wish for you to trouble me._

_However, it has come to my attention that our paths have drawn near to each other again without crossing. It was my desire to contact you first. Otherwise, I supposed you might hear my name from another and that you might be driven to anger, your suspicions aroused._

_You asked me once if our shared secret would ever become a threat to Ferelden. I write to assure you that my word that it would not remains unchanged._

_Be well._

_Morrigan_


	12. For Lack and Longing

Morrigan had not intended to begin an ongoing correspondence with Alistair. Simply hearing his name and that he was alive had stirred up nagging concerns which had granted her no peace until she had penned the letter. Then she receives one in return. 

“Mother? Who’s it from?” Kieran inquires. 

She sends him away at first. She makes certain that she is absolutely alone the first time she reads it. 

_Morrigan,_

_Did I ever tell you that they made me king? Should you write back – I hope you will – perhaps you should consider addressing me as such. Not that I believe you would ever deign to do such a thing._

_I must admit that your letter gave me quite a fright for a moment. I thought you’d want to know that. I am relieved at your reassurances no less._

_I would like to assure you that this letter is written in my hand alone. It has never been touched by scribe nor reviewed by advisor. It is intended for your eyes alone, though there is but one person I would grant you leave to share its contents with, should you choose to do so._

_With those assurances out of the way, I have two questions to which I beg your answer._

_Is the child safe? And, if you will, what is he like?_

_Alistair_

  


* * *

  


Alistair receives another letter from Morrigan and then another to his next response. 

In one, she tells him that she has told their son – Kieran – that his father was a good man. In another, he asks if he might address part of his next letter to his son. 

The thought dizzies him when she acquiesces. His _son_. The son she had once promised he would never know. 

It still isn’t _knowing_ him really, but in the next letter there are a few lines written in a hand apart from Morrigan’s. 

_Father, you are quite funny, but I can tell you are more than that. You write of Ferelden in a way that seems much more pleasant than what Mother describes, but I am glad to have been in the land of my birth. Perhaps Mother will show you it, one day._

The message is short and confusing, but he laughs first at the thought that – of course – he would speak far more fondly of Ferelden than Morrigan ever would. Then he stares at it, memorizing the child’s handwriting. He finishes the rest of the letter, but Morrigan’s words are familiar by now, and he reads the three sentences penned by Kieran over and over again. He reads them until he accidentally creases the letter badly and then smooths it out again. 

He wills the words to be more than what they are. He tries to bring a voice to mind that he has never heard. He remembers Morrigan’s, loud and clear after all this time, and wonders if there is any way they sound alike. The three lines are not enough, so when he forces himself to take some long, slow breaths and stop obsessing, he reads the rest of the letter again. It is then that he realizes that he longs not only for more of his son but for more of her. 

He does not quite know what it means. 

He carefully places the letter in the small chest which now contains all those he has received from her. There are letters from a few others, too. Rina and Zevran. Leliana. But none are so important to keep away from the eyes and hands of anyone else as these. 

With the letter safely put away, he stares up at the canopy of his bed. His mouth works in silent conversation with no one around to listen, never quite forming a complete thought. A sound comes from his throat, but it is not a word. He turns onto his side at the center of his bed. He weeps. 

Alistair receives a total of nine letters from Morrigan before her responses stop. 

He sends a tenth, hoping in vain that somehow such a carefully guarded and delivered document could simply and safely be _lost_. 

He waits for a long while to hear back from her. 

He starts to pen an eleventh but stops halfway through and crumples the page. He throws it into the fire, trying not to make an idiot of himself. He weeps again, hoping he will not make a habit of this.


	13. A Sleepless Night

One night, Alistair is roused from sleep by an incessant _pecking_ noise on his window. Lately, he has not been sleeping as well as he would like, anyway. It irritates him. He grabs a fistful of pillow and covers his head. 

“Go away,” he complains. Even if it’s a particularly noisy assassin, it is the only thing he wants. 

The pecking noise does not stop. Finally, he sits up in bed and squints at the window. 

Moonlight shines upon the iridescent feathers of a black bird. It pecks insistently on his window. 

“No,” he groans at it, even as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Go away, stupid bird. Don’t you know who I am?” 

_Peck, peck, peck._ Then an urgent, rustling flap of its wings before it uses its talons to grip once more. 

Alistair rubs the bridge of his nose and his eyes. He stands to his feet to go and manually shoo the bird away. He looks it right in its beady eyes. 

“No, that’s impolite of me. I don’t even wish you upon the sorriest soul in Ferelden. Go away. Wing you way to Orlais!” he complains at it. 

Three more very deliberate pecks. They are provocative and he knows it. 

“What _are_ you? Some sort of… _demon_ bird come to torment me?” 

It makes an unpleasant sort of bird noise. He thinks it might be telling the truth. 

Then, it abruptly swoops down toward the path below. It flies a circle around a boy’s head. A young boy, about ten years old, with hair as black as the bird’s feathers. 

Alistair’s heart tries to stop before it begins racing. The boy stares up, right into his eyes. The bird perches on his shoulder.

His mouth gapes open. 

A moment later, the bird lifts off again, only for its form to grow into a woman with her hand resting upon the boy’s shoulder. She is looking up at him, too. She is a woman he would recognize anywhere. And really, it would be shameful if he didn’t, because he had been to bed with her, however regrettable it had been. 

She raises her eyebrows at him. 

He keeps staring, not knowing what to do. 

She finally makes a broad gesture at him, prompting him to do _something_. 

  


* * *

  


King Alistair Theirin stands in his nightclothes on the grounds of of his estate in Denerim. He stands with his back to the door, the singular guard he had allowed to accompany him instructed to wait to dare to even _move_ without an order. 

Even Alistair is holding his breath. 

He strides toward Morrigan and the boy with her. He knows, logically, who the boy is, but he does not let his eyes settle on him for long. He looks to Morrigan for help, guidance, and any explanation she is willing to give. 

She is wearing more clothes than she used to. He can tell she has been to Orlais. It makes sense, really. He shivers in just his nightclothes. 

“Mor-Morrigan,” he manages. 

“King Alistair,” she addresses him. He can tell she has only granted him his title because of his own stupid stammering. 

“You’re… here,” he states. 

“That I am. It is not an illusion. I doubt I could craft one quite so convincing. Even magic has its limitations.” 

“How?” 

“Is that truly the most pressing question to you at the moment? If it is, I shall try to answer, but I doubt you would find the answer as satisfying as others I might give.” 

Alistair blinks at her. She is just as sharp as she used to be, in both senses of the word. 

“Ah. Yes.” Finally he can resist looking at the boy no longer. He stares right into his eyes. It occurs to him that they are not the same, strange yellow Morrigan shared with her mother. “Is… Is this—?” 

He can’t even get the question right. 

“I am Kieran. It’s nice to meet you. You are King Alistair, yes?” the boy asks. 

There is something about the boy’s voice that makes the hair stand up on Alistair’s arms and the back of his neck. He wonders if it might just be the night air. He wonders if it is the dark magic which allowed both himself and Rina to survive their ordeal with the archdemon. 

The archdemon. 

_Kieran_. 

“Yes, I am… King Alistair,” Alistair hears himself saying. 

“Then you are my father. Mother told me.” 

“Ah. Yes. Yes, I am.” 

Alistair glances up at Morrigan’s eyes. He keeps waiting for something terrible to happen. He keeps waiting for some spirit or other to drift past and become Goldanna again. He waits to wake up. 

When that doesn’t happen, he thinks of something to say. 

“It’s just as you promised. No tentacles or anything.” 

“I’m so glad you are pleased with the merchandise,” Morrigan says, scoffing at him. She nods down toward her son. Their son. 

Alistair takes the hint and looks back down at Kieran. The longer he looks at him, the more real he seems, and the more afraid Alistair becomes. 

“Could I…” he starts to ask, working up his nerve, “hug you, perhaps?” 

Kieran looks up at Morrigan, apparently for permission. She nods once. 

He steps toward Alistair as Morrigan’s hand drops away from his shoulder. He peers up at him. 

“You are my father. You may hug me if you wish.” 

“So she hasn’t made you all weird about that?” Alistair blurts out before he can stop himself. 

“Alistair,” Morrigan warns. 

“Right, of course not. You’re… normal,” he says. Then, before he can make a bigger fool of himself, he bends his knees and reaches beneath the child’s arms. The child is tentative at first, which makes it seem a bit less strange. Alistair cannot _find_ a tentative bone in his body when he finally wraps his arms around the boy, though. 

He straightens and picks the boy up off his feet. He holds him there, feeling him breathe for a long moment. He breathes against the child’s hair. Kieran allows it for a moment before craning his neck back to look at him. The scent of pine pricks in Alistair’s nose as tears prick his eyes. He smiles at Kieran as he slowly lets him down. 

“Thank you,” he says, even if it is probably a weird thing to say. 

When Kieran is firmly planted on his feet again, he looks back up at Alistair. 

“You’re welcome,” he says after a moment. “Mother tells me we will be staying here, at least for a time.” 

Alistair looks at Morrigan. He raises his eyebrows. 

“You will?” he asks. The thought of how much the world has changed – that an apostate mage might show up in the middle of the night and inform him that she is simply coming to live with him, the King of Ferelden – stuns him for a moment. 

“Did I ever tell you I was an arcane advisor to the Empress of Orlais?” she asks, an echo of a question he had asked her far too many times.


	14. The Final Page

“I can get you both your own chambers,” Alistair promises Morrigan in a hushed tone. 

Kieran is changed into the nightclothes Morrigan had brought along for him, fast asleep on one side of a bed. 

Alistair watches him with fascination and a sort of bursting feeling like terror and excitement and pride warring with one another to spring up into absolute monsters. Only, he does not think he is under the influence of any demon. He glances down to notice that Morrigan is studying him with some other variation of attention. He supposes that she has been able to have all she wants of studying Kieran all his life. It occurs to him to be jealous and cross about that, but he realizes those are bygones, now. 

“It’s only that we keep one of the guest chambers made up, usually, and now we will need to see to another for guests and a third for you. There’s plenty of room. I just don’t like to work the servants to death,” he explains. 

“How _noble_ of you,” Morrigan coos at him, condescendingly. 

It warms him just to hear something so familiar after such a long, long time of spending most of his evenings alone or else fretting that his next decision might plunge the nation into war or kill dozens or hundreds of people. Even on the nights that he slips out into the streets to visit tiny taverns patronized by the common people, he never comes home with company. 

There have been plenty of offers of _company_ but none – from any quarter – that have gone beyond a kiss and an apology. 

He does not know why he is even thinking about that kind of thing at the moment. He decides he is tired and pushes himself away from the door frame. He points to his own bedchamber door. 

“I’ll be here, right across the hall, if you need anything. And Gertrude’s asleep, but she’ll be happy to help you if it’s… I don’t know… lady or child things I don’t know anything about,” he says, gesturing to the servant in question’s nearby room. 

He fumbles for his doorknob and grasps it, pushing his way inside. 

He hears the door across the hall close. He turns to shut his own door back, only to nearly jump right out of his skin. Morrigan is standing there, silent as nothing at all. 

“Ye-es?” he asks, dragging out the syllable to mask his terror. 

Morrigan looks down, past him, and nods into his room. 

“I would like to spend some time with you. I am sure you have much more to share with me that would not have been convenient to put into your letters,” she says. 

It is so presumptuous that he laughs, but he takes no offense to it. It’s refreshing, really, to be around someone who has not seen him since the day before he became king. She doesn’t treat him any differently than when last they’d met. And then he wants to splash water over his face as he looks her over, recalling the circumstances of the last full day he’d spent with her. 

The last _night_ he’d spent with her had resulted in the boy sleeping across the hall. 

He swallows and feels it almost choke him. 

“Well, you’re going to be living here now, won’t you? I’m… sure you’re tired after—”

Morrigan sighs, openly disgusted with him before he even finishes speaking. Then, before he can complain about her not listening to him, he is no longer speaking. Instead, he is making a muffled sound into her mouth. 

He is certainly not _kissing_ her. She is kissing _him_ , and his mouth is in a talking sort of shape, and he’s trying to remember how it goes. In a panic, he tilts his head and arranges his face so he is not at least actively prohibiting her intentions. 

He weakens into it. She hasn’t forgotten how, and he doesn’t think he has, either, however little practice he’s had. The next time he is aware of what the rest of his body is doing, his hand is gently gripping her arm, just below her shoulder. His thumb brushes back and forth, and then he breaks away from her mouth, a little breathless. 

“I—” he says. He knows he wants to say something. She pushes against him a little, and he can sense that she might be about to kiss him again to stop him from speaking. It is certainly not a _familiar_ tactic, coming from Morrigan, but it is one he can at least comprehend at his age.

He lifts his free hand to gesture for her to halt, to let him speak. 

He manages to get eye contact with her, and she rubs her lips together. Hers are reddened and he sees a little glint below one of them. It’s really much more distracting than he would like. 

“Listen,” he pleads. “I need you to know that I… in no way… _ever_ had any expectations that you would ever—”

She lets him get that far before she steps back from him. His hand is left holding nothing, and he thinks that he has angered her. He watches helplessly as she returns to the door, and he wonders if he should go after her, because he doesn’t think he means to tell her _‘no, never,’_ exactly. 

She closes the door, quietly. She is still standing inside it. 

“Morrigan?” he asks. 

“Go on,” she says as she turns back to him. She stays by the door, gesturing only with her hand to the bed. “You’re so very tired, I see,” she coaxes in a tone that gives him a very unfair feeling, like he is melting from the inside at the thought of her using the same tone with Kieran. 

It takes him a moment to realize he’s being condescended to again. 

He has nowhere else to go and sits on the side of the bed anyway. His shoulders slump, and he feels his face is hot across his nose and cheeks. 

“You may lie down. It does not bother me,” she continues, only slightly more like she is talking to an adult. 

“Is this—are you—are _we_ …?” Alistair tries to ask her. He finds himself obeying anyway. He is still clothed, which at least affords him some dignity in the matter this time. 

“You may relax, Alistair,” Morrigan assures him. “You are king, after all. If anything happens that you don’t like, you can call for your guards and they will run me through without question. But you may trust me now.” 

She starts taking off her clothes, then. 

Alistair gawks. 

He realizes after a moment of embarrassed, helpless staring that she has only removed _most_ of them, leaving herself in a sort of thin gown that had been underneath. 

He sighs. He thinks it’s relief. 

Only when she stops stripping is he able to consider her words completely. 

_‘You may trust me now.’_

It’s a ludicrous sort of statement, but he feels the weight of time and life itself in her words. He stares at her familiar shape. She’s aged little and well. She does not come to him with any sort of malice that he can sense, and he’s gotten better at that, actually. 

“So… if you’re not planning to ravish me… or… trick me into something – begging all appropriate pardon – then… First of all, what was kissing me about? And secondly, what are you doing? Is this the part where you kill me somehow? Was there poison on your lips? That _would_ be quite the most inconvenient murder plot, and I _just_ had one taken care of a few months ago.” 

Morrigan comes toward his bed. She places one knee and then the other upon the foot of it, and sense memory alone sends heat pooling toward his groin. He pushes himself a bit upright again, pressing his back to the headboard. 

Only she just sits there, rather than crawling on top of him. 

Again, he thinks he is relieved. He’s really, really confused, and he gropes for his blanket to try and casually conceal a new problem he has budding. 

“Have you forgotten what the word ‘relax’ means?” Morrigan asks him. She reaches up and unties her hair. It falls down over her shoulders, and Alistair gulps. 

“You’re making it _extremely_ difficult,” he whines at her, gesturing in an accusatory manner. 

“If you request that I leave, I will do so, not as your subject but as your friend,” she tells him. 

She waits for him to respond, which he recalls as a rare sight. He watches her yellow eyes watching him. He manages to exhale more completely, watching her eyes alone. And then there’s what she’d called him, which makes _some_ of the tension leave his body. 

_‘Friend.’_

“After all this time, huh?” he asks her. 

“Yes, I think so,” she agrees, following his question. 

“Huh,” he repeats, more marvel than anything. He cannot help it when he smiles at her, fond in a tired way. In a relieved way, too, and he _is_ sure about that one. 

“Oh, don’t be so naive. We behaved as friends for longer than we behaved as enemies,” she reminds him. 

“Yeah, but I thought… you know, I thought _maybe_ , but then I thought it might have all just been a _lie_ so you could… take me to bed and make me give you a demon baby,” Alistair explains. 

“He is not a demon.” 

“Not anymore.” 

“Thanks to you and your graciously listening to me.” 

“That’s… fair enough,” Alistair admits. She is silent for a moment, but she’s still sitting there, perched at the end of is bed. “That still doesn’t explain the kissing?” 

Morrigan looks away from him. She brushes her fingertips over the part of the blanket that he is not using to cover his groin and part of his stomach. 

“Did you find it unpleasant?” she asks. He thinks it’s an honest question, which baffles him. 

“Unpleasant? No. I just never expected you to do it when you weren’t feeling sorry for me and trying to keep me from running away before giving you what you… needed.” 

“Have you had many women to bed in these last years if you interrogate their intentions so?” Morrigan demands of him in a slightly hissing tone. 

“Many?” Alistair asks. He tries not to laugh to give himself away, but then he sees that any effort at deception would be lost on her. “Well, no,” he admits. “But by choice. Mostly. I think. What about you?” 

“I have been quite busy,” Morrigan points out. “I’ve had your child to raise, and I have also been many places doing many different things, trying to prevent the end of the world.” 

Alistair lifts his eyebrows a bit, surprised at her free admission. He is simply surprised, he thinks. 

“I had my turn at that,” he says dryly. “Helped save the world. Now I’m trying to keep Ferelden from unsaving itself.” He circles swiftly back to something else he has registered that she had said. “I would have helped you, you know.” 

Morrigan tilts her head at him slightly. Then she glances away. 

“I am aware of that,” she admits after a long moment. “And I suppose that is one reason I am here now. Not the only, but you should know that it is no small part.” 

“You want my help? With what?” 

“Raising Kieran.” 

Alistair is silent, giving the thought as much due consideration as he can. 

“We can discuss this more at length, but the simple truth is that the only thing I can do for my child is try not to do to him that which my mother did to me. And after your letters and with the world as it is now… I cannot run away with him, now, as I did before. At least, I shan’t do it alone, should this world become beyond saving. But I came to you because I thought… perhaps, you can do him some good.” 

Alistair feels as though Morrigan has used some sort of spell to hollow out his chest. He can barely breathe at her admission. If it’s a lie, he doesn’t want to know the truth, but if it’s the truth, he can hardly think where to start. He leans back, head against a pillow again. He stares up. He reaches up to the top of his head and takes a fistful of his hair, gripping it gently as he takes it in. 

He isn’t watching, but he feels it when Morrigan crawls up beside rather than over him. 

She reclines and he glances to see her watching him. He doesn’t look away. 

“I learned that you… had not yet found a queen,” she says to him, watching closely. 

Alistair’s heart sinks slightly, but he resists the feeling. 

“Oh, so you want to be queen now?” he balks at her. 

“No. I would prefer a position with more specific use,” Morrigan says to him. 

He frowns, puzzled. That is better than feeling played, at least. 

“And I am of no noble birth, and I understand that there are rules and considerations you must make. I will… stay here, with you, for so long as it is feasible. And you will help me raise our son. In return for my assistance, advice, and loyalty, you will… _not_ seek another woman to take up your bed, for so long as Kieran is a child, for I will not try to help him understand that. I would like him to see… cooperation, between his parents. And if… you should like… companionship in return, I… would not object.” 

Alistair is a bit boggled at the way Morrigan speaks so much more now. He had always known she was capable of it, but she had usually chosen to walk away before considering paragraphs an appropriate mode of communication. He studies her face, and when he finally understands all that she has said, a laugh bubbles up from deep in his chest and bursts. 

Morrigan scowls and pushes herself up against her arm. She is about to storm away, he is sure of it, so Alistair reaches out and takes her gently by her forearm. 

“Wait, wait,” he requests. 

She seethes a little but stops trying to retreat. 

“Are you… saying… that you would like me to swear to take no others to my bed and… share my bed… because you would like to… be around me, perhaps?” 

Morrigan’s face turns a shade of pink, and he thinks she lowers herself back down onto her elbow if only to seek refuge in shadow. He takes a deep breath and rolls onto his side, mirroring her position to look at her and to listen to her. He earnestly wants to hear what she has to say. 

“Well, it is… for Kieran’s sake, in part. I do not wish to give him _delusions_ about families, but I should like him to have one. But it is expedient for other reasons. It spares me the trouble of weeding out vapid fools or those who might harm you from a distance. It affords me an appropriate amount of influence, and I would like to take… care that you do not—”

Alistair reaches out and brushes her hair back from her face, the corner of her eye. He feels it with his fingertips and slowly brushes it back behind her ear. She stops talking, though he is not sure that was his intent. 

“I… care about you, too, Morrigan,” he informs her. He glances away from her eyes, playing with her hair so that he might say it. “I have for a long time. Even when I hated you. Both for just… _being_ you and… then… for leaving.” 

When he checks her face, there is a fretful crinkle on her face. It is one that Zevran had first pointed out but which he had never forgotten. He’d found it funny, a long time ago. He thinks he still does. 

He thinks he might regret it, but Alistair decides to try at least. He leans in, tilts his head, and kisses her lips. 

She plucks them away almost instantly. 

“If you prefer it, I do not have to touch you at all,” she says, a grumbling sort of threat. 

“I think I prefer… not,” Alistair says to her. He tries kissing her again. This time, she does not pull away. He slides his lips against hers, and he threads his fingers through her hair. He grips, gently. 

She places her hand against the center of his chest and pushes lightly. 

He breaks the kiss, dutifully, but she keeps pressing her hand against him. Obedient, he thinks, he allows her to push him onto his back. Then her hands begin to tug at his shirt, purposeful but without any sense of urgency. He stares up at her and lifts himself a bit when she tugs it over his head. She pushes him back down by his shoulder and kisses him, more fiercely than before. He tries his hands against her waist, and they slowly start to bunch the fabric of her gown up into them. She doesn’t push him away, and he definitely does not ask her to wait.


End file.
